


Intensive Care

by LadyEliza



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Medical Mystery, Medical Procedures, Slow Build, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 102,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEliza/pseuds/LadyEliza
Summary: Chase is sick. House won't leave him alone. The diagnostics team at PPTH has two cases to solve...
Relationships: Robert Chase/Greg House
Comments: 284
Kudos: 392





	1. Chapter 1

Robert Chase hurries across the lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, trying not to slip on the water-slick tile floor. It’s his first day back at work after a ten-day trip to Melbourne, and he’s running late.

The car had been buried under a mountain of snow that had fallen overnight, and by the time he’d shoveled it out, brushed it off, and warmed it up, Chase was both late and soaked.

His damp clothes do nothing for his mood, or for the cold he seems to be coming down with. It hasn’t come as a surprise; the combination of a 22-hour flight and jetlag is simply taking its toll. After crashing out and sleeping through the entire day and night before, he’d woken up with a stuffy nose and started sneezing.

As he passes the reception desk, a gaggle of nurses who are gathered there wave and try to beckon him over. He waves back, but rushes past with an apologetic watch-pointing gesture to indicate how late he is. He ducks into the elevator just as the doors are closing, nearly getting his bag stuck.

He spends the elevator ride battling a tickle in his sinuses and trying not to sneeze on the elderly, wheelchair-bound patient that he’s sharing the space with. The patient’s nurse still gives him a dirty look when he sniffles and wipes his nose. 

He disembarks on the fourth floor and hastens toward the diagnostics office. He’s finally made it to the door of the conference room when the tickle returns, this time much stronger. Pausing halfway through the glass doors, Chase barely manages to cover his mouth before being overtaken by a massive sneeze.

Whatever conversation had been going on in the room pauses, and Chase is aware that he is now the center of attention. Bowing his head to avoid the curious looks of his colleagues, he enters and takes a seat at the end of the table nearest Cameron.

“Yikes,” House half-turns to look at him, cocking an eyebrow. “I hope you covered your mouth. The window cleaner doesn’t come until Monday, and Wilson borrowed my squeegee.”

“Bless you,” offers Cameron. With a smile she adds, “And welcome back. How was Australia?”

“Good,” Chase replies, grateful to change the subject. “Hot this time of year. Nice change from the snow.”

“Did you go somewhere?” House furrows his brow in faux confusion. “I hadn’t noticed. Oh, well. Since you’re here now, why don’t you make yourself useful and ask Foreman to stop presenting me with lame cases.”

Cameron’s eyes darken. “It’s not lame.”

Chase picks up a pencil and twirls it between his fingers. “What’s the case?” 

“58-year-old female presenting with muscle weakness, slurred speech and double-vision,” Foreman says mechanically, not looking up from his newspaper.

“Boooring! Give me another one.”

“Why is it boring?” Cameron asks House, affronted. “Mrs. Hoople has done a 5K run for cancer research every year since the early nineties. She’s an incredibly fit woman for her age. Now she can barely walk!”

“I’m sure she also leads a girl-scout troop and plays piano at church on Sunday; that doesn’t make her interesting,” House steamrolls Cameron. “A blood test a monkey could do will reveal that she has ALS, probably first thing tomorrow morning. ER should have figured it out sooner. Tell her she can start doing the ice-bucket challenge instead of the 5K.” When Cameron’s only response is to pout, House turns back to Foreman.”What else have we got?”

“30-year-old male with severe constipation. He hasn’t had a bowel movement in almost two weeks,” Foreman continues. “The plot twist is that he’s a competitive eater who’d just won a hot dog eating contest.”

House winces. “How many hot dogs did he eat before he stopped pooping?”

“37.”

“Is that with or without the bun?”

A bit of commotion breaks out as House demands to know the weight and girth of the hot dogs in question, and Cameron makes another spirited attempt to champion Mrs. Hoople. Ignoring them, Foreman turns to the business section of his paper. Chase is about to jump in, intending to placate Cameron while actually siding with House, when he feels another sneeze coming. He groans inwardly.

Hoping to ward it off, he presses a finger beneath his nose but, instead of holding it in, the small touch has the opposite effect. Unable to stop himself, Chase swivels away from Cameron to sneeze violently, catching it against his sleeve.

House frowns at the loud interruption, but seems prepared to ignore it; unfortunately, Chase isn’t done yet. He tries slamming his nostrils shut between his fingers, but all that does is nearly burst his eardrums when he sneezes again, causing a small explosion of pain between his eyebrows.

“Bless you!” Cameron exclaims.

Chase would have thanked her, but his disobedient nose won’t let him. He fumbles in his pocket for a tissue, retrieving one just in time to muffle three more sneezes.

When he’s finally finished, Chase opens his watering eyes to find that everyone is staring at him. Sniffling, he lowers the soggy tissue, feeling his cheeks flame red with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Cameron asks, studying him with concern.

“I’m fine,” he replies, wanting to sink through the floor. House is watching him like he’s just done something fascinating. Foreman gives him a look of disapproval, and resumes his paper-reading with a slightly aggressive page-flip.

For an uncomfortably long moment, House doesn’t say anything. Then he turns to the whiteboard.

“How about this one,” House says, scribbling symptoms. “Patient is a 28-year-old male. Symptoms include a runny nose and incessant sneezing. Differential diagnosis?”

“Sounds like a cold,” supplies Foreman.

“Excellent suggestion!” House claps his hands. “This is why Foreman gets paid more than the rest of you. But wait, Doctor Foreman – aren’t those highly contagious?”

“I’m fine,” Chase repeats stubbornly. “Just a bit run down from traveling is all. I always pick up some little bug on the flight. It’s not a big deal.”

In response, House throws a Kleenex box at him. Reflexively, he catches it. 

“Tell the patient he’s an idiot for coming into work when he’s sick. Treatment is bed rest, chicken soup and an industrial-sized box of tissues.”

“I’m not -”

“Oh yes, you are,” House assures him. “Chase, go home. Come back when you can breathe through your nose.”

“But-”

“Out! Scram! Shoo!”

Feeling dejected and hoping for support, Chase turns to his colleagues. Cameron offers him a sympathetic look but says nothing; Foreman’s eyes continue to bore holes through his newspaper.

Too embarrassed to object any further, there’s nothing for Chase to do but stand and gather up his things. He feels silly and stupid, like a kid being sent home from school for forgetting to wear pants. He puts on his coat and his messenger bag and wordlessly heads for the door.

“Feel better, Chase,” Cameron says kindly. He gives her a small nod of thanks, touched by her concern.

House goes back to the board and his marker-pens, carrying on as though Chase is already gone. On his way out the door, he hears House utter,

“So, Hot Dog Guy it is. Alright, Foreman – let’s discuss toppings!”

*

The following afternoon, Chase lays sprawled across his living room sofa, watching daytime TV. He’s been staring listlessly at the screen through several morning talk-shows and an episode of _Judge Judy._ Now, one of House’s soaps is on.

His brief stint at work the day before seems long ago. He’d been angry with House for sending him home, but now has little doubt that his boss had made the right call. His cold had grown progressively worse since his expulsion from the hospital, as early as the car ride home. He’d shivered throughout the drive, even with the heater blasting. After making it back to his apartment, he’d changed out of his damp clothes and crawled sulkily into bed, burying himself beneath the comforter. He’d spent the rest of the day sneezing his way through an entire box of tissues, followed by a sleepless night of trying not to drown in his own mucus.

Today hasn’t been much of an improvement, but at least Chase has resigned himself to the fact that he’s sick. Within easy reach of the couch, the coffee table is laden with food (a box of Saltine crackers), medicine, and half-drunk cups of water and herbal tea. His legs are draped in a green waffle-weave hospital blanket that he’d borrowed from work a year ago and forgot to bring back, with a box of tissues balanced on his lap. He’s as comfortable as he can be, given the circumstances. He just needs to ride it out a few more days until he’s no longer contagious.

Chase’s eyelids are drooping when he hears the unexpected tapping sound of someone knocking at the door. Rubbing his eyes awake, he hauls himself up to answer it and is surprised to find Allison Cameron standing in the hallway, clutching a bagful of groceries.

“Hey. Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Chase asks as he ushers her in.

“I am. Technically, this is a work-related errand.”

Cameron sets down the brown paper bag on the counter after Chase has shown her to the kitchen. She begins unloading cans of soup and bottles of milk and orange juice. “I brought a few things. I figured I’d save you a trip to the grocery store.”

“You didn’t have to-” Chase starts, but Cameron’s already opened the fridge, which is empty apart from takeout leftovers, a jar of mayonnaise, a few bottles of Fosters and an old lemon. He changes tack. “You’re a lifesaver. Thanks.”

As Cameron puts away the groceries, Chase decides to do what he does best: he sits down and shuts up, giving Cameron room to take charge and silently judge him for his evident lack of preparation and overall uselessness. Cameron is the sort of person who probably has a pantry stocked with enough nonperishable food items to get her through a nuclear winter. Chase eats most of his meals at work.

While unpacking, Cameron tidies up a bit. Chase feels guilty when she starts loading the dishwasher.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a tip in here,” he apologizes, “I just got back the day before yesterday, and all I did was sleep. Now I have this stupid cold.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not that bad. Just a few dishes,” she reassures him. 

Finally finished, Cameron sits down across from him at the kitchen table.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the company,” Chase ventures after a moment. “But to what do I owe the house-call?”

Smiling slightly at the pun, Cameron reaches into her purse. Her hand emerges with a folder. “House wants you to have a look at the patient’s file.”

“Huh. I thought I was banished.” Chase takes it and flips it open, fanning through the photo-copied pages.

“You are – from the hospital. But hopefully, you’ll be back on your feet in a few days, and this way you’ll be up to speed with the case.”

Opening the file between them on the table, Cameron starts telling him about the case.

“The patient is 30-year-old Andrew Stevenson, a pizza delivery man and professional competitive eater from Trenton. He visited the clinic two days ago complaining of lethargy, nausea, and weight gain. He was diagnosed with dehydration and told to drink Gatorade and eat a banana. His doorknob question was to ask if it was bad not to poop for two weeks.

“The patient was admitted after an abdominal x-ray showed a large mass in his colon, which is almost completely impacted.”

Chase raises an eyebrow in contemplation. “He’s not overweight. How many pounds has he put on?”

“Ten pounds in two weeks is what he approximated.”

“Maybe he’s allergic to dairy,” Chase throws out. “Eating all those pizzas at work could be what’s blocking him up.”

“He claims that he follows a strict healthy diet between eating contests. Vegetables and high fiber, low gluten, no dairy.”

“Low gluten probably rules out celiac, then,” Chase frowns. “How about hypothyroidism?”

"We’re running a check on his thyroid. We should have results back within a couple of hours.”

“What treatments has he been given?”

“Oral laxatives, anal suppositories, and a fleet enema. Nothing seems to be making a difference, so far.”

They read through the file and bat around ideas for a while. Cameron is breaking down the blood-panel results when Chase starts to feel a sneeze coming on. Not wanting to interrupt her, he wriggles his nose and sniffs. She glances up.

“Sorry, itchy nose.”

“Oh, okay,” she says and carries on reading. “Low iron levels indicate mild anemia. Hemoglobin levels were slightly abnormal…”

Chase listens distractedly, putting a hand up in front of his face and letting it hover there when his sinuses start rebelling again. Cameron is still talking, but it’s hard for him to focus. He flaps his free hand to get her attention.

“White cell count is normal, which means it’s not infection…” Cameron looks up to find him gesturing and frowns in confusion.”Chase? Are you -”

Chase responds by sneezing loudly enough to make Cameron jump in her seat. 

“Ugh… sorry,” he groans miserably, “I feel awful.”

“You sound pretty awful,” Cameron agrees. “And you look…” She trails off, squinting at him with a frown.

He sniffles. “What?”

Moving in for a closer inspection, she leans forward and stares at him with enough intensity to make him a bit uncomfortable.

“Are your eyes bothering you?” she asks, brow creasing slightly.

“A little. I’ve been staring at the television all day,” Chase blinks a few times experimentally, feeling a slight soreness at the movement. “Why, are they bloodshot?”

“They look irritated,” Cameron replies. “Do you have eye drops? If not, I can write a script and pick them up for you at the pharmacy.”

“No need. I have some in the medicine cabinet. But thanks.” He’s only half-sure that he’s telling the truth, but he’s not about to let Cameron run more errands for him. “It’s really kind of you to offer.”

Not entirely convinced, Cameron holds his gaze a few more seconds before her expression relaxes.

“Alright. I guess I should go back to the hospital. You can finish reading through the file whenever you feel like it." Standing, she hooks her purse strap over her shoulder and buttons her coat. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything from the pharmacy. Seriously, it’s not a problem. I pass by here on my way home.”

“I promise,” Chase assures her.

Like House says: everybody lies.

*

After Cameron leaves, Chase switches the television off and spends the afternoon reading through the patient file with morbid fascination. He’d been vaguely aware that competitive eating was a thing that existed, but was nonetheless unprepared for the information that a human being was capable of devouring 62 tacos in one sitting.

He dozes off at some point, eventually waking himself up with a sneeze. He winces at the sharp pain that lances through his head, and lets out a small moan.

Instead of restoring him in any way, the nap has left him feeling exponentially worse. He takes a quick inventory of his symptoms: his sinuses feel like they’ve been filled with red ants and cement, his head throbs, even opening his eyes hurts - his eyelashes are so crusted together with sleep that it requires scraping off with his fingers. His mouth is dry, and he feels slightly disoriented. He should probably go drink some water.

Chase forces himself up and stumbles over to the kitchen sink, filling a glass with tap water and swallowing it in one long gulp. He refills it and downs a second glass before leaning heavily against the counter.

Now that he’s fully awake, it begins to dawn on him that the crust on his eyelashes may have been a cause for concern: his eyes feel gummy and sore. He massages his closed eyelids and hisses in pain – it feels like he’s rubbing grains of sand in.

His sluggish mind calls up his earlier conversation with Cameron. He thinks to himself: _b_ _ollocks._

In a perfectly predictable turn of events, Cameron had been right and Chase had been an idiot who thought he knew better. Now he can only pray that he wasn’t lying when he told her he had eye drops.

A glance at his bathroom mirror informs him that he has a double eye infection; every bit of sclera is inflamed. Inside the medicine cabinet, he finds over-the-counter antihistamine drops that work fine for his hay fever, but might as well be water for all the effect they’ll have now. He applies them anyway.

Ten minutes go by and Chase is practically clawing at his eyes in discomfort. He curses himself for not listening to Cameron. He’d refused her offer of help, and now his eyeballs are on fire and it was probably too late to call her, her shift had ended hours ago –

Although…

The digital clock on his stove reads 8:45 PM. He feels a glimmer of hope – it’s late, but there’s a chance that she might still be at the hospital working overtime. He pages her and waits.

Only a few minutes later, his phone rings. Chase almost cries with relief when he sees House’s office number on the caller ID.

He answers. “Cameron?”

There’s a slight pause before a distinctly male voice says, “No. She’s gone home for the night. She left her pager.” The voice belongs to Foreman.

“Oh…” Chase can’t help how crestfallen he sounds. 

There’s another, longer pause before Foreman clears his throat. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m…I… ” Chase falters, feeling idiotic at how wobbly his voice sounds. “I have an eye infection. Cameron said she’d write me a script.”

“For what – eye drops? What kind?”

Feeling even stupider, Chase realizes he doesn’t know. “Dexamethasone, I think.”

Foreman huffs out a sharp breath. “Well, I can call in a script for you, but you need to give me more information. What are your symptoms?”

 _My eyes hurt_ , Chase’s mind answers petulantly.

Aloud he says, “There’s redness and pain in both eyes – it feels like there’s sand in them. They’re watering a lot, and there might be some discharge. It’s probably infective conjunctivitis.”

“Probably,” Foreman agrees. “Any light sensitivity? Blurred vision?”

“A bit of light sensitivity. Vision’s fine.”

“Do you have any allergies?”

“Strawberries. Cat hair. Bog-standard hay fever. Nothing else that I know of.”

“So probably not an allergic reaction – I take it you don’t have any cats.”

“God, no.”

“Okay. Are you running a fever?”

Chase pauses, blinking dumbly. “I… don’t know.”

Foreman huffs again, not bothering to hide his aggravation this time. “Can you go take your temperature and find out?”

Obediently, Chase goes to the medicine cabinet and retrieves a thermometer, uncapping it and sticking it under his tongue. Staring at his reflection in the mirror while he waits, he can see how flushed his cheeks look against his otherwise pale skin. He honestly looks quite ill.

The thermometer sounds, rousing Chase – he’d almost forgotten what he was doing. He reads the result into the phone. “101.8.”

Foreman sighs dejectedly. “You’re too sick to drive, aren’t you?” It’s not really a question, and he doesn’t wait for Chase to answer. “Alright, I’ll order the scripts and bring them over. I should be there in less than an hour. You… go lay down. And don’t touch your eyes.”

*

In the nearly three years that they’ve worked together, Chase can honestly say that he’s never been so happy to see Eric Foreman.

Chase isn’t sure if it had been an hour or less since Foreman had volunteered to come over and when he hears the knock at the door, but it feels like ten. His eyes are in agony, ablaze with the intolerable sensation of grit being lodged in them.

Foreman’s instructions be damned, he’d touched them; he’d been unable to _stop_ touching them. Try as he might, he couldn’t leave them alone for more than a minute or two at a time, and the more he rubbed them, the more inflamed and painful they became. The constant flow of tears from his eyes had set off a chain reaction with his nose, and both are now streaming uncontrollably.

He mops his face with a tissue and blows his nose a few times before answering the door. Still, Foreman looks at him with an expression of alarm and mild disgust upon setting eyes on him.

“I told you not to touch them,” he grumbles, brushing past Chase without waiting for an invitation.

Tucked under one arm, Foreman is carrying a little white pharmacy bag. Chase fights a strong urge to rip it away from him and tear it open with his teeth.

“You’re lucky I decided to stay late and wait for labs to come back,” Foreman remarks, taking a glance around Chase’s living room. Chase realizes that this is the first time Foreman’s ever set foot in his apartment, although he’d dropped him off here once or twice when Chase’s car had been in the shop.

“I know. Thank you for doing this. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” Chase says, meaning every word. He eyes the pharmacy bag, hoping to convey that while he is indeed extremely grateful, he’d be even more so if Foreman would hurry the hell up and give him his meds.

Foreman grimaces at the sight of a used tissue under the tip of his leather shoe. He carefully toes it away. “You’re welcome.”

Too desperate to be embarrassed at this point, Chase politely clears his throat.

“Would it be alright if I take those drops now? My eyes are killing me.”

Foreman shrugs and holds out the bag; Chase tries not to actually grab it from him. Ripping it open, he dumps a small bottle of Dexair onto the coffee table. He wastes no time in prizing the cap off and aiming it at his right eye.

To Chase’s immense frustration, the combination of his burning eyes and shaky hands are making it difficult. He squeezes the bottle and at first, nothing comes out. He squeezes harder and squirts his closed eyelid instead of his eye. 

“Slow down,” Foreman advises.

Chase tries again, and once again he misses, spilling precious fluid down his cheek. He actually whines in frustration.

“Oh, for christ’s sake, let me do it!” Foreman snaps, snatching the bottle away. With a firm hand on Chase’s forehead, he tilts his head back and deftly peels one eyelid back to apply several drops - then, the other. The whole process takes about fifteen seconds.

Almost immediately, Chase feels a relieving coolness wash over both of his eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes out, letting his eyes slip shut as the worst of the irritation ebbs away.

“You need to learn some patience,” Foreman scolds in a tone of consternation, but there’s not much bite to it. His palm lingers on Chase’s forehead a few more seconds before drawing away.

“Have you got anything to eat? I’m starving,” Foreman announces, crossing the room into the kitchen.

“Mm,” Chase murmurs. “Cameron brought food.”

Chase hears the refrigerator door opening and shutting, then the cabinets. 

“Have you eaten?” Foreman calls.

Chase shakes his head no, though Foreman can’t see him. It doesn’t matter – he isn’t hungry, anyway.

He hears some clunking sounds that are probably pots and pans, and curls in on himself on the couch. For the first time since he’d woken from his nap, he feels comfortable enough to relax. Even the incongruous presence of Foreman banging around in his kitchen is oddly reassuring.

A few minutes later, Foreman emerges holding two steaming bowls, one in each hand. He sets one down on the coffee table in front of Chase. It’s filled with chicken noodle soup. 

“Here,” he says gruffly, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. “You should eat something.”

Chase feels rather touched. He can hardly remember the last time anyone had brought him soup when he was sick. “Thanks,” he says, picking up the spoon.

Foreman grunts and seizes the remote, wriggling it out from under Chase’s foot. He turns on the television and switches over to ESPN.

They eat together in silence, watching basketball. Chase isn’t really paying attention to the game, but it’s nice to have something on in the background. Once he starts eating, he feels hungry enough to continue. The hot soup makes him feel a bit better and eventually, he finishes it, which is the most he’s eaten in two days. 

Feeling sleepy, he yawns hugely and curls into a ball, head resting on the arm of the couch. When his eyes close, the empty bowl is still clutched loosely in his hands.

Sometime later, he feels the weight of it disappear. Then he hears the creak of the door and a soft click as it shuts. 

*

Snow is falling softly over Princeton, New Jersey. Little white flurries dance in the light of a bright clear morning.

With fat, fluffy snowflakes accumulating on the shoulders of his black wool overcoat, Gregory House raps on the door of Chase's first-floor apartment with his cane.  
  
Chase answers the door in a pair of striped pajama pants and a grey cotton t-shirt, his improbable hair fetchingly tousled from lying in bed. His severely bloodshot eyes widen at the sight of House on his doorstep.

“Chase!” House greets him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. No, wait – maybe it’s the other way around.”

"Hi, House," is all he can think to say as he opens the door.

"Two little birdies told me you keep getting sicker. Just wanted to make sure you're not dying," House says conversationally, entering the apartment. He drops his black medical bag down on the cluttered coffee table and parks himself on the couch.

“It’s just pinkeye. It’s uncomfortable, but I’ll live," Chase offers with a small shrug. "Can I get you a coffee or something?"

“I’ll take a whisky. Or you could shake me up a Martini. Isn’t that what you blue bloods drink?”

Chase rolls his eyes. “Sorry. I’m all out of olives. And it’s ten in the morning.”

Taking in Chase’s living room, House notes that it’s nothing at all like what he’d pictured (he’d always imagined Chase living like a student in a glorified dorm-room, heaped with empty pizza-boxes and dirty laundry). The room is clean but somewhat cluttered, with stacks of books and piles of papers on most of the surface tops. There’s an abstract watercolor painting on the wall that looks vaguely like the ocean, and a plant-stand beneath the window housing several small cactuses, a trailing fichus, and a large aloe plant. The beige sofa he’s sitting on faces a widescreen TV and video game console on a low table, and a tall bookshelf heaving with books and DVDs.

The TV is on pause. “Are you watching _Lord of the Rings_?” 

“I can’t watch daytime TV anymore,” Chase explains off-handedly, “I don’t know how you can stand those god-awful soaps.”

“You pick your poison, I’ll pick my distinctly less nerdy one.”

“I’m making tea,” Chase decides, walking off into another room that House assumes is the kitchen. “There’s coffee, regular black tea, and some herbal ones. Peppermint, chamomile, and green, I think.” 

"Don’t bother!” House calls. “I’m not ingesting anything you’ve had your germy hands on.” 

While he waits, he picks up a book from the coffee table: _Top Knife: The Art & Craft of Trauma Surgery_. Flipping through it he sees that Chase, the heathen, has dog-eared the pages.

“You’re a book abuser,” he calls out.

“I like books,” Chase returns holding two mugs, setting one down on the coffee table in front of House. A combined smell of coffee and peppermint tea wafts from the steam in the air. “I prefer mine broken in.”

“I told you I’m not drinking that,” House nods at the coffee.

“I washed my hands before I made it. Don’t drink it if you don’t want to.”

Chase takes a seat at the other end of the three-seater sofa and takes a long sip of his tea. For a moment, they sit together in silence.

Then Chase puts his mug down and grabs a tissue from a nearby box. His face slackens into a far-off look that means he’s about to sneeze (Chase with a cold always meant relentless sneezing); sure enough, he brings the tissue to his face and sneezes hugely four times in a row. Finally he stops, still panting shakily.

“Finished?” House asks, hopeful. On cue, another sneeze explodes from Chase. His knee bumps the coffee table, sloshing tea.

“Ugh… God…” he mutters, with a long, congested noseblow, “Enough already.”

“Christ. Have you thought about hurricane-proofing this place from the inside?”

“Oh, shut up House,” he sniffs, grabbing himself a fresh tissue.

“You first. Can you try and keep a lid on that until after I leave?”

Chase shakes his head. “You’re the one who decided to come here, and see all the fun I’m having,” he blows his nose again, “If you get sick, it’s your own fault.” 

“Maybe I am tempting fate. At least I’m not the one with snot on my shirt.”

Chase frowns down at himself, then abruptly changes gears and begins to cough. It’s not some wimpy little cough, either; there’s fluid rattling around his lungs trying to escape, making unpleasant noises. House is almost tempted to start whacking him on the back. By the time he finishes, his face is bright red.

"Sorry," he wheezes, “I’m not actually doing this on purpose.”

"That's a nasty cough,” House remarks, “How long has that been going on?"  
  
“Since the middle of last night," Chase replies, still catching his breath. House notes the sweat beading on his brow.  
  
"Any trouble breathing?"  
  
"A little. Only when I’m lying down."  
  
House opens up his medical bag to retrieve his stethoscope. He beckons Chase over. "Let me listen to your chest. Take off your shirt."  
  
Obviously reluctant but doing it anyway, Chase clumsily removes his shirt and moves closer to House.

House pretends to ogle him.

“Geez, if I’d known it would be this easy to get you to take your clothes off, I would have been offering daily chest exams since the day you were hired.” He places the bell of the stethoscope against Chase’s lower back, “Inhale. Deep breath.”

At House’s command, Chase attempts a series of breaths while he performs the requisite tests. It makes him cough, which means House keeps having to stop and wait for him to finish.  
  
"How's it sound?" Chase ventures after a while.  
  
"Like Rice Krispies. Your lungs are snapping, crackling, and popping. Hold still- I’m going to check your respiratory rate."

House takes Chase’s radial pulse and listens to his chest through the stethoscope, counting respirations. Through Chase’s pulse-point, he can feel the unnatural warmth of a fever.

Putting away the stethoscope, he finds a thermometer and takes aim at Chase’s mouth. When Chase hesitates slightly he says, “Oh, come on. We both know you love sticking things in your mouth. Open up.”

Chase parts his lips and does as he’s told. When it beeps, House extracts the thermometer and tuts at the reading.

He holds it up to Chase’s face. “Is this better or worse than yesterday?”

“About the same.”

“Right. What are you taking for the cough?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“What _are_ you taking?”

“Uh… Tylenol. The eye drops,” Chase coughs pitifully.

“You’re a doctor. Are you really this inept at taking care of yourself?” House asks frankly. Instead of replying, Chase attempts to stifle another sneeze, failing miserably.

Pushing the box of Kleenex at him, House is experiencing a dilemma. There are few things he hates more than the nagging feeling that he’s missed something in a diagnosis and, for reasons unknown to him, Chase’s stupid little runny nose and cough is bothering him.

He could do the sensible thing and ignore it - chalk it up to personal ties and boredom. Or he could do… something else. 

“Get dressed,” he decides. “We’re going for a ride. I’m going to run some tests.”

Chase groans through a tissue, "Oh, God. Do I have to?"

“Yes. And take a shower before we leave. You’re a mess.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You smell.”

“No I don’t!” Chase objects, offended. “I took a shower earlier!”

“Can you smell yourself? That was a rhetorical question; of course you can’t. You’re too congested to smell anything.” House prods him with his cane. “Shower. Now.”

Exasperated, Chase bats the cane away and storms off.

Hearing the shower blast on a moment later, House shouts,

“And don’t take too long conditioning your hair!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to all medical practitioners: My medical knowledge is 100% Google. There will be inaccuracies.
> 
> Updates will be on Fridays (at least that's the plan for the foreseeable future). 
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments are deeply appreciated! X


	2. Chapter 2

Thirty minutes later, Chase is slumped face-down on the conference room table, using his forearms as a pillow. He’s hardly comfortable, but still struggles to stay awake.

"Is it cold in here?” he asks. He’s freezing.

“Nope,” House replies, rummaging around, “Must be the fever playing tricks on you.”

Chase nearly nods off, but startles awake to discover that the back of his hand is wet; he isn’t sure if he’s been drooling or dripping snot. He uses a balled-up tissue from his coat pocket to wipe it off and then leaves it there to absorb whatever else leaks out of him.

It occurs to him dimly that Cameron and Foreman don’t seem to be around. He considers asking their whereabouts, but decides it would take too much effort.

“Aha!” House’s hand emerges from his medical bag holding a hypodermic needle and syringe. “Roll up your sleeve. I’m going to draw some blood.”

“Why couldn’t you just take a sample back at my apartment?” Chase complains, rolling his sleeve and sticking his arm out.

“Easier to do it here. This way I have you around if I want to run more tests.”

House draws a vial of Chase’s blood, then takes a second sample for good measure and disappears, leaving Chase alone.

*

Attempting to tackle a mounting stack of paperwork, James Wilson is distracted by the nearby sound of a persistent, unhealthy-sounding cough. Whoever the cougher is, he (it sounds like a he) has been at it for half an hour and is showing no signs of stopping, leaving Wilson unable to concentrate.

What perplexes Wilson the most is that it’s coming from House’s office. Cameron and Foreman are at a training seminar this afternoon, and Chase is still off sick. That only leaves House, and it doesn’t sound like him. He wonders idly if House has trapped a patient in there as some sort of twisted prank.

Dropping his fountain pen with a sigh, Wilson goes to investigate. He pokes his head through the sliding door and is surprised to see a familiar blond head resting on the glass table.

“Chase? What are you doing here?” 

Robert Chase lifts his head and blinks up at Wilson, wearing a bleary expression. His face is pale and his eyes and nose are bright pink. He looks utterly miserable. 

“Humoring House,” he replies, voice rough. At Wilson’s questioning stare he adds wearily, “Don’t’ ask.” 

Wilson steps inside the room and is alarmed to discover that it’s absolutely freezing. The air-conditioning is on full-blast, explaining why Chase is still in his winter coat.

“It’s freezing in here,” Wilson’s brow creases with concern. His eyes widen in disbelief. “Is your hair wet?”

Chase gives an affirmative nod. “I took a shower before I came. It’s mostly dry now, though.”

“Is he out of his mind?” Wilson wonders aloud angrily. Shaking it off and turning his attention back to Chase, he asks, “Where’s House?”

“He said he’d be back. That was a while ago…” Chase breaks into a harsh coughing fit.

Wilson fetches a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and sets it on the table next to Chase. When the coughing subsides, Chase sends him a look of gratitude and takes a long sip.

“Forget about House,” Wilson instructs. “Go home. You look like death warmed over.”

Chase lowers his eyes, a smudge of guilt in his expression.

“I told him I would wait...”

If it had been Cameron or Foreman, Wilson would have tried reasoning with them. But it’s Chase.

“At least sit in the Eames chair,” he sighs, taking Chase by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. “You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

Chase doesn’t resist when Wilson guides him over to the stylish yellow recliner. The moment he settles into the comfortable chair, he seems to lose the will to stay awake. He closes his eyes and curls in on himself. 

“Here,” Wilson covers him with a plaid wool blanket from House’s closet. “Take a nap. I’ll see if I can hunt him down.”

*

“Why is Chase in your office?” Wilson demands. “Also, why is your AC set to max in the middle of February?”

He’d located House in the coma ward with his feet up on one of the patients’ beds, eating a roast-beef sandwich.

"I brought him here to run a few tests,” House says through a large bite, “As for the air-conditioning, I was trying to chill a six-pack. Must have forgotten to switch it off.”

“Why are you running tests on him?” Wilson asks suspiciously.

“He’s my employee. I’m concerned for his wellbeing.”

“You care about his health so… you left him in a freezing cold room with wet hair. I know it’s been a while since medical school but you do remember that’s bad, right?”

House hums. “Just speeding things along.”

“You’re _trying_ to make him sicker?”

“Just a teensy bit,” House holds his index finger and thumb close together to indicate a tiny amount. “Enough to hurry his symptoms along. Makes it easier to figure out what’s wrong with him.”

“You’re running a differential on him - why?”

“Do I need to repeat myself? ‘Sick employee, caring boss’, etcetera?”

Wilson stares at him incredulously.

“You regularly turn down cases where the patient is bleeding from every orifice, yet you’re compelled by Chase’s head cold?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is there’s nothing wrong with him! At least nothing that can’t be cured by a week in bed and a bottle of Dayquil. He’ll be fine as soon as you stop torturing him.”

House gives a noncommittal shrug. Wilson squints at him. “Do you not have a case right now? Is that what this is about?”

“I have a case. An interesting one. It even involves poop.”

“Then let the poor kid go home and focus on your patient.”

“I’ll let him go home when I’m done with him… maybe.”

“How do you even have time for this? Your other employees have been gone all day and won’t be back for another two hours. Who’s taking care of Poop Guy?”

“Is that any way to refer to a patient?” House admonishes him. “We’re waiting for labs to come back; plenty of time for a detour. And his name is Hot Dog Guy, by the way.”

Wilson wags a finger at him. “I know what this is. You _do_ care. You’re sad because one of your toys is broken and you want it back. You’re trying to fix him.”

“That must be it,” House says witheringly. “I can’t go another day without Chase.”

“I’m telling you, House - if you keep messing around and sticking pins in him, it’s going to take longer than a week for him to recover.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” House replies, and takes a big bite of his sandwich.

*

“Hey! Who said you could sit in my chair?”

Chase startles awake, momentarily confused to find himself looking up at the ceiling in House’s office. House is roughly shaking his shoulder.

“Wilson,” Chase replies groggily, shrugging House’s hand off. 

“Well, you and Wilson can go fifty-fifty on the cleaning bill when I pay to have it sanitized. Sit up so I can take your blood pressure.”

Chase sits up stiffly, not overly happy to be out from under the nice warm blanket Wilson had given him. House waits for him to remove his coat. When it’s off, he shivers in the cold air.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Chase asks while House attaches the cuff to his upper arm.

“I didn’t find anything yet. Results won’t be back until tomorrow.”

After taking Chase’s blood pressure, House checks his pulse and takes his temperature. 

“Temp is 102.3,” House reads from the thermometer, “Up half a degree since we got here. Congratulations – you just won yourself a ride on the Princeton-Plainsboro Express. I’m having you admitted.”

“No!” Chase scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Too bad. You’re staying.”

“No, I’m not. It’s completely unnecessary. Save the bed for someone who actually needs it.”

“You need it.”

“I don’t! I can look after myself at home just fine!”

“You’ve been doing a bang-up job so far.”

“I have a _cold_!”

“You have multiple infections, a rising fever, and lungs that sound like velcro. You’ll do as I say.”

Chase scowls. “I’m not staying.”

*

Cameron and Foreman return from the seminar and enter the diagnostics office find House perched on the edge of his desk, cane rested across his lap, swinging his legs and looking cheerful.

They stop in their tracks when they see that something is different: House has drawn a line down the center of the whiteboard.

On the right-hand side is a list of their patient’s symptoms written in blue marker. On the left side, in black, is another list. It reads: 

_-Runny nose_

_-Sneezing_

_-Conjunctivitis_

_-Fever_

_-Cough_

_\- Lung Crackles_

“These aren’t our patient’s symptoms,” Foreman says warily.

“Sure they are. They belong to our other patient; we’ll call him Patient #1,” House explains, “Hot Dog Guy is Patient #2, for obvious reasons.”

“Chase isn’t a patient.”

“He is now. He’s got his own bed and everything.”

“You admitted him?” Foreman balks in disbelief.

“Is he okay? Did something happen?” Cameron asks worriedly.

House nods. “Same thing that’s been happening for three days straight: new day, new infection. This one’s in his chest.”

“He’s coughing because his cold got worse. I’m pretty sure he’ll live,” Foreman says, unimpressed. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to know the status of our actual patient.”

“Nothing to report. Labs aren’t back yet. Still no poop.”

“I’m going down to the lab to see if I can get an ETA on those tests results,” Foreman heads for the door.

House stops him with his cane. “Not so fast. First, I want a diagnosis.”

“Why are you wasting our time with this?” Foreman complains, aggravated. “We’re already short-staffed _because of_ Chase.” 

“You’re right – we’re spread thin. No time for dilly-dallying.” House motions to the board. “Go on.”

“Fine,” Foreman mutters, looking extremely put-upon, “RSV. Mimics a cold, infects the respiratory tract, lungs fill up with fluid. Symptoms appear in stages. As long as he can breathe on his own, he can treat it at home. Discharge him.”

“Sure thing. After you run the test and confirm.” House turns to Cameron. “Well?”

She shrugs. “I agree with Foreman.”

“About RSV?”

“That Chase should go home. He probably has the flu. There’s no reason to keep him here.”

“Assume it’s not the flu. What else could it be? And don’t say RSV.”

Cameron purses her lips. “It could be mono.”

“Good,” House rubs his hands together. “Go find out if he’s been kissing anyone, and check his liver and spleen for swelling. Foreman, do an NP for RSV and Influenza A. Then go give Hot Dog Guy another enema.”

“It’s so great to back at work,” Foreman mutters to himself on his way out the door. “I sure did miss this place.”

*

They find Chase sitting up in bed, in his room on the ward on the second floor. At the sight of them, he looks a bit self-conscious.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” Cameron asks warmly to put him at ease.

“I’m okay,” Chase replies. He sees that they’re both holding charts. “Did House send you to run tests on me?”

“Yup,” Foreman says, not bothering to mask his displeasure.

Chase fidgets with the edge of his blanket. “Sorry.”

“Let’s just get this over with.” Foreman sits down on a chair beside the bed and rolls on a pair of latex gloves. He takes out the swab, which resembles a long Q-tip. “There’s a possibility that you could have RSV. I’m going to do a nasopharyngeal swab, which we’ll also test for the flu.”

“I know it’s silly I’m here,” Chase admits, hating himself a little for feeling the need to justify his actions to Foreman, “but House wouldn’t take no for an answer. You know what he’s like.”

“I know what _you’re_ like. You don’t always have to listen to him, you know.” 

Chase lifts an eyebrow. “You think it’s a waste of time to be running these tests, but you’re still doing it.”

“I’m still on the clock. You’re dancing to his jig on your own time.” Foreman removes the swab from its packaging. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.”

Foreman holds Chase’s chin to steady him before inserting the swab deep into the left nostril until he meets with resistance at the nasopharynx. He holds it there a few seconds to absorb the secretions, before twisting slightly and sliding it out; the motion triggers a sudden, unpreventable sneeze from Chase.

Mortified, Chase claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t sneeze on you, did I?”

With an unconcealed look of disgust, Foreman wipes the side of his face with a gloved hand. In a tight voice, he says, “Not your fault. It happens during NP swabs sometimes.”

While Foreman is bagging the specimen and rubbing hand-sanitizer on his face, Cameron passes Chase a tissue, which he gratefully accepts.

“I’d like to check your spleen and liver for swelling. Is that okay?”

“Go ahead,” Chase tries to accommodate her by pulling the blanket down and lying flat. “What are you testing for?”

With a tiny trace of guilt, she replies, “Mononucleosis.”

“The kissing disease,” adds Foreman.

She presses down gently at various spots on Chase’s abdomen. “Have you had close physical contact with anyone recently?”

“She means have you been sharing saliva with anyone,” Foreman translates. 

“No,” Chase says mildly.

“There. All done,” She pulls the blanket back up and writes a note on her chart. “Let me just check your lymph nodes.”

Gingerly, she prods the glands beneath his jaw. Satisfied, she stands back and smiles.

“Spleen and liver are both normal. Your lymph nodes are swollen, but that's to be expected. My theory was wrong – you don’t have mono. We’ll run a test to make sure, but I think you’re in the clear.”

“Thank God. I’ve had it before and it’s horrible.”

She pats his shoulder reassuringly.

“You should get some rest. We’ll let you know what the tests say.”

*

House is tossing his oversized red tennis-ball to himself in his office. Foreman enters the room like a storm-cloud. 

“NP tests came back negative,” he tosses the printout onto the desk in front of House. “Thanks for making me run those, by the way. While was I collecting the sample, he sneezed in my face, point-blank.”

“Sometimes people do that when you stick pointy things up their noses,” House reminds him.

"You're right. It wasn't his fault. It's yours!"

Cameron comes in and notices the irate Foreman. “Everything okay?”

“I was just telling House that I hope you two are looking forward to running the department by yourselves when I come down with whatever Chase has,” Foreman says, with a sour look at House.

House weighs the implications. He tosses the tennis ball in the air. “Good.”

“ _Good?_ ”

“Well, if he _is_ really sick, that means you’re really sick now, too. That’ll give you extra motivation. And if you do get sick, we’ll have a control group. I’d call it a win-win.”

House pushes himself up from his chair.

“Before we start worrying about where Chase’s germs are spreading, we’ve got to find out where they came from. We need to know what he was doing last week,” He moves towards the door, motioning for his fellows to follow. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the patient."


	3. Chapter 3

They arrive at Chase’s room to find him working on a crossword puzzle, chewing absently at the end of his pencil. He looks up, surprised to see House amongst them.  
  
"We need talk about your trip,” House says without preamble. “Tell me about the flights: layovers, flight durations, time spent in the airports. That sort of thing."

With the pencil still half in his mouth, Chase replies,

“I flew from Newark to Melbourne with layovers in Fiji and Hong Kong. On the way back there was a stop in Singapore. All told, including drives and airports, it’s about a 30 hour journey from door to door."

“Thirty hours each way,” marvels Cameron. “That’s brutal.”

“It is. I’ve gotten used to it, though.”

"On the flights, did any of the other passengers seem sick?" asks House.  
  
Chase thinks back for a moment. "On the way there, on the flight from Hong Kong to Melbourne, somebody was coughing a few rows back."  
  
"That would make it ten days from exposure to when you started showing symptoms," Cameron notes.

“ _If_ that’s when you were infected,” House adds. “What were you doing in Australia?”

“It wasn’t a recreational visit. I didn’t really see anyone.”

“Yet you flew across the globe to do what… sit around by yourself?”

“I’m sorting out my parents’ estate.”

House raises an eyebrow in interest. “I thought Daddy Dearest cut you out of the will?”

“He did; Mum didn’t. Both their names are on the house. None of this is relevant.”

“I decide what’s relevant,” House says sternly. Chase holds his gaze.

After a beat, House continues. “So, what else did you do while you were there? Any croc-hunting? Kangaroo-boxing? Go on walkabout?”

“Signing paperwork, talking on the phone. I barely left the house.”

“Barely?” House motions for him to elaborate.

“I went surfing,” Chase admits a bit guiltily, “Once.”

“Whoah! Radical, dude! Think you managed to catch anything besides waves?”

“No,” Chase replies, then elaborates, “No gastrointestinal issues, which rules out parasites, hepatitis, MRSA, gastroenteritis and virtually everything else you’d get through exposure to contaminated water.”

“Not everything,” corrects Foreman. “It could easily have caused the eye infection.”

Chase dismisses him. “It was last week. It would have presented ages ago if it was related.”

House turns to Cameron. “What waterborne diseases affect the lungs and not the stomach?”

She thinks a moment before replying, “Legionnaires’ disease. It would explain the respiratory problems and fever.”

“Not bad. We’ll test for it,” House goes back to Chase. “Any injuries while you were hanging ten? I see no visible shark bites.”

Chase shrugs. “I got slammed by a few waves, fell off the board once or twice. Nothing particularly special.”

“Anything else that you can think of that might be of significance?”

“Not really.”

“Okay then. Go back to your crossword. By the way, 16 across: Five letter word, starts with ‘I’ and ends with ‘T’. “Village --”

*

It’s late at night when House enters Chase’s room again, this time by himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” House drops a piece of paper in Chase’s lap, “Your CBC results. Have at ‘em.”

Chase picks it up, surprised. “Thanks.”

“Notice anything usual?” asks House, watching Chase as he studies the paper intently.

“Leukopenia with a relative lymphocytosis and thrombocytopenia,” Chase’s eyebrows furrow. His voice is noticeably hoarse. “White cells are doing the opposite of what they’re supposed to.”

“They should be gathering forces; instead they're retreating. And either you have a sore throat, or your voice was stolen by a sea witch,” House looks around the room suspiciously. “By any chance, was Cuddy here?”

“My throat’s a little scratchy. Nothing too bad,” Chase coughs, trying to clear it. “Have you shown this to Cameron and Foreman?”

“Not yet. They’ve both gone home for the night; it’s almost one in the morning. Good thing you’re a night owl.”

“How come you’re still here?”

“Waiting for test results.”

“ _These_ test results?”

“No, Hot Dog Guy’s. Now that I’ve taken on two patients, I’ve had to start burning the midnight oil.”

Chase sighs. “House, you really don’t have to– “

“Shut up.”

“ _House_ \- “

“No, seriously – shut up. Lay off your throat. And have a nurse bring you some tea.”

House plucks the paper from Chase’s hand. “I thought you’d want to see this, and now you have. We’ll see what we come up with tomorrow. Drink your tea and go to sleep.”

“Okay. Goodnight, House.”

“Uh uh uh! No talking!” House makes a lip-zipping gesture, then leaves.

*

Cameron and Foreman arrive at exactly eight o’clock the following morning and are surprised to find House already at his desk, looking impatient.

“You’re late,” he accuses.

“We’re on time,” Foreman says, removing his scarf unhurriedly.

While they’re still taking off their coats, House raps vigorously on the whiteboard with his cane.

“Patient #1 has two new symptoms.” 

Sure enough, another two symptoms have been added to Chase’s side of the board. At the bottom of the list is written:

- _Sore throat_

_-Low WBC_

Cameron looks taken aback. “That can’t be right.” 

“How low?” asks Foreman. House hands him the lab report.

Foreman frowns down at the paper. “Huh.”

Peering over Foreman’s shoulder, Cameron says, “This doesn’t make sense. With his symptoms, his white count should be way up.”

“And yet,” House gives a whimsical little shrug.

“It’s abnormal,” Foreman concedes. “We should run it again.”

*

“Your CBC revealed an abnormally low white count,” Foreman explains, prepping Chase’s arm to draw blood. “It’s an odd result, so we’re going to run it again to be sure.”

“I know. House showed me,” Chase says, voice shot. He looks and sounds worse than he had the day before. He appears distracted and faintly nauseous.

“Of course he did,” Foreman mutters.

“Can you bring the lab report next time you’re here? I’d like to have another look at it.”

“I’d rather not,” Foreman flicks the side of the needle.

Chase pouts. “How come?” 

“No offense, but you’re the patient. Let us do the doctoring. You can do the laying in bed part.”

Chase wears a sulky expression while Foreman draws his blood. Just as Foreman is withdrawing the needle, he grimaces suddenly, bringing a hand to the side of his head.

“Is something wrong?” Cameron asks attentively.

Chase replies with a meek nod.

“My left ear,” he touches it to indicate. “I think it’s infected. Would you mind having a look?”

“Of course,” she sweeps the hair back from his ear; even the light touch is enough to make Chase wince. Over the top of his head, she gives Foreman an apprehensive look. “Can you hand me the otoscope?”

Scope in hand, Cameron hunches level with Chase’s ear and places the tip of the device inside, peering in and releasing a soft puff of air. “You’re right; there’s fluid behind the eardrum. Looks like a middle ear infection.” 

Chase swallows and nods, keeping his eyes closed. “That’s what it feels like.”

Foreman sounds almost sympathetic. “We’ll get you started on Cefotaxime; that should help clear it up fast.”

“That would be good,” Chase nods, voice small and distant. Taking in his pale, pain-stricken face, Cameron feels a sudden wave of compassion.

“You poor guy,” she sighs, taking out her prescription pad, “You really can’t catch a break.”

*

Walking through the reception lobby, House hears the nearing clack of high-heeled shoes.

“House!”

He picks up his pace toward the elevator.

“House! _House!_ Hold the door!” Lisa Cuddy manages to wedge her clipboard between the closing doors just in time to shimmy in and join House for the ride up. Slightly winded, she blows a dark curl of hair out of her face.

“I just had a look at the admissions log and saw that you admitted one of your employees for ‘flu-like symptoms’. Care to explain?”

“Foreman told you,” House guesses. “Or was it Wilson?”

“He was concerned--”

“Wilson, then.”

“—that you are compromising said employee’s health further by poking and prodding at him, when all he has is a bad cold.”

“I haven’t poked him. Maybe some light prodding…”

“He’s been here less than 24 hours and you’ve already run four lab tests, not including the CBC you ran before admitting him.”

“Well, I tried diagnosing him through osmosis and sheer willpower first, but it turns out the tests work faster.”

“Chase needs rest, not an endless parade of swabs and needles. And I need the bed back.”

“What’s the harm in running a few tests? Like you said, it’s probably just the sniffles; a couple of swabs aren’t going to kill him. He’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Justify keeping him here or I’m discharging him.”

“On top of the flu symptoms, he’s getting slammed by infections, all with a rapidly plummeting low white count.”

“That’s _one_ odd symptom,” Cuddy concedes. 

House shrugs. “It’s an anomaly. Anomalies bug me.”

Cuddy pauses to think for a moment. Finally, through a long exhale she says,

“Alright. You can keep him here until we know what’s affecting his immune system. Keep testing his blood regularly and see if the problem resolves itself. If it does, send him home.”

The elevator opens on the fourth floor, and House hobbles out. As the doors are closing behind him, Cuddy shouts,

“And don’t make me regret this by neglecting your actual patient!”

Over his shoulder, House calls, “Wouldn’t dream of it, boss!”

*

Over the years, Chase had gotten more than his fair share of ear infections, so when he felt one coming on he hadn’t been all that surprised. It usually happened in tandem with him getting sick, so it made sense that he’d have one now.

He’d been started on a course of antibiotics early in the day, which meant that even though it didn’t feel like it, he was already on his way to healing. He’d also been prescribed a low dose of painkillers, which unfortunately didn’t seem to be having much of an effect.

As the day wore on, the pain was bad, but bearable for a while. He felt the infection spreading to the other ear, but again that was normal for him. The antibiotics would do their work and it would be gone in a day or two. He wasn’t worried.

By late afternoon, he was in crippling discomfort. His fever climbed half a degree. On a brighter note, at least the constant sneezing seemed to be tapering off, which was fortunate – the couple of times he did sneeze over the course of the day made him feel like his eardrums were about to explode.

By late evening, the pain was all-encompassing. He couldn’t eat, or read, or watch TV, or work on his crossword puzzle. All he could do was lay there and suffer.

Night fell, and he drifted in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. He found himself moaning at intervals. At some point, the idiot monkey part of his brain was telling him to stick a scalpel in his ear to drain the fluid.

Sometime after sunrise, he felt a sudden excruciating pain in his left ear that really did feel like a scalpel being driven in. He gasped, so overwhelmed with sudden agony that, against his will, tears streamed from his eyes. He felt his ear canal filling up with fluid.

He hit the call button for a nurse, who arrived to find him whimpering with blood and pus spilling out of his ear. His eardrum had ruptured and, though it was one of the worst pains he’d experienced in recent memory, the worst of it was over. She’d cleaned it and given him extra painkillers and a warm, dry compress to hold to his ear. She’d told him to go back to sleep and warned him against blowing his nose, which would only aggravate the problem. He’d tried not to look at her with too much contempt at this piece of advice, not sure how well he’d succeeded. 

Staring up at the ceiling with intermittent tears still leaking down his cheeks, he’s starting to suspect that House is right; maybe there really is something wrong with him.

At this point, he doesn’t particularly care what it is. He just wants it to stop.

*

House studies the symptoms on the board, to which he’s added:

_-Middle Ear Infection_

“Nose, eyes, ears, throat, lungs– we’re running out of parts of him that _aren’t_ infected,” he marvels, rubbing his chin. “So… what causes half a dozen infections in an otherwise healthy 28-year-old?”

“What if he’s not?” Foreman posits, “Healthy, that is. Maybe there’s an underlying condition that’s compromising his immune system.”

House nods. “Like what?”

“Well… he has a family history of cancer,” Foreman offers a bit reluctantly. “And alcoholism.”

“Good. What else?”

“He had his tonsils removed when he was twelve,” submits Cameron. “People who’ve had a tonsillectomy are more vulnerable to colds and respiratory infections.”

Foreman gives her a scornful look. “Chase never had his tonsils out. That’s just one of his cute stories that he likes to tell the patients.”

House clears his throat and slides Chase’s file across the table to Foreman.

“Actually, he did – which you’d know if you’d bothered to look at his file.” 

Foreman frowns, opening the folder. “Fine, I stand corrected. Still doesn’t explain the onslaught of secondary infections.”

“Then tell me what does.”

Foreman’s eyes skim down the pages. “He was sick a lot as a kid – recurrent strep and tonsillitis, sinus and ear infections. Maybe he has an undiagnosed PI disorder.”

“As much as I’d love the irony factor, I find it hard to believe that a world-renowned rheumatologist who literally wrote the book on immunological disorders would have failed to recognize one in his only child.”

“It’s strep,” Foreman says, with sudden conviction. “Kids who have chronic strep and tonsillitis have a genetic predisposition to strep A. Having a tonsillectomy reduces the frequency and severity of infections, but has a negative long term effect on the immune system.

“Just because he had his tonsils out doesn’t mean that he can’t get strep throat. Strep causes the sore throat, fever, ear infection, and swollen lymph nodes. Everything else is explained by a cold.”

“So he has strep throat _and_ a cold?” Cameron clarifies.

“Why not? His immune system obviously sucks.”

“Makes sense,” House agrees. “Do a rapid strep test and throat culture.”

Foreman holds up his hands, “Oh, no. I’m not swabbing him again. Cameron can do it.”

“You know what? I’ll swab him,” House decides, “You two go check on Hot Dog Guy. He’s overdue for his digital rectal exam.”

“ _You’re_ doing a swab? Are you sure you remember how?”

“Of course; you know how I love the hands-on approach. Here’s hoping you do, too. Put your gloves on, Doctor Feelgood. Hot Dog Guy needs you.”

*

“It’s not strep,” Chase argues when House approaches him with Foreman’s theory. “Doesn’t feel like it. Believe me, I’d know.”

“Save your voice. Let the tests do the talking.”

“Fine. But it’s not strep throat.”

“Stop nay-saying,” House chastises, “You’re killing Foreman’s buzz.”

Chase relents, and House busies himself with putting gloves on and preparing the items he’ll be using in an unhurried fashion. Chase watches him with mild interest; it’s rare to see House do anything particularly doctorly. 

“Since when do you do grunt work?” Chase asks after a moment, nodding at the swab that House is holding.

“Since one of my grunts is off sick, and the other two are busy with a patient. Tilt your head back,” holding Chase’s tongue down with a wood compressor, House plunges the swab along the inner lining of his throat.

Bagging the sample, House says, “How’s the ear? I hear it perforated.”

“Really painful, thanks. Are you asking me how I feel now?”

“You’re a patient; I actually care how you feel now. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Well, since you asked, my ears are killing me and I can barely hear a word you’re saying. So if you want your insults to land, you’ll need to speak up.”

“Thanks for the tip,” says House, raising his voice to a near shout, “YOU IDIOT. Anyway, duty calls - I’m waiting for word on our other patient. Foreman has a finger up his butt as we speak.”

As House is removing his gloves, Chase asks tentatively, “I was wondering if you could keep me up to date on the case. I’ve already read the patient file, and it would be a nice distraction.”

House considers for a moment. “I don’t see why not.”

Chase smiles. “Cheers. What are his latest symptoms?”

“A burning sensation in his rectum. And probably a pleasant tingling, now that Foreman’s playing around in there.”

“Proctitis could be from ulcerative colitis. It fits with his other symptoms,” Chase suggests.

“Could be. No fever, though. And his white count is normal.”

Chase snorts. “Lucky him.”

“Well, if you’re getting jealous, just be glad you don’t have a burning rectum,” House advises. “I should get going – I want to get Johnny Cash queued up on the stereo for when Foreman gets back. I thought I’d set the mood for his report by playing ‘Ring of Fire’.”

Chase tries to maintain a straight face, not succeeding particularly well. “I’m sure he’ll love that.”

Facing away from him, House says something under his breath that Chase can’t hear.

“Sorry?”

More mumbling.

“House, speak up! You know I can’t– “

The penny drops. House turns around, wearing a thin smile. “What, are you deaf?”

“Ha, ha,” Chase deadpans.

“You handicapped people have no sense of humor. That one kills in the ENT department.”

“You’re an ass.”

“You should hear my jokes about blind people. But you can’t, because you’re deaf.”

“The silver lining of temporary hearing loss is I won’t actually have to listen to you for a few days,” Chase says peevishly.

“Don’t you worry. I don’t discriminate against the disabled. I’ll find other ways to annoy you.”

*

"Proctitis isn’t the patient’s only issue,” Cameron yells over the blaring of House’s stereo system.

“It’s not a pretty sight down there,” Foreman corroborates loudly, handing House the chart. 

House looks at the report and raises his eyebrows high. “Youch. Well. That’s gotta hurt.”

He heads over to the whiteboard. The side of the board that isn’t dedicated to Chase reads:

_-Lethargy_

_-Nausea_

_-Weight gain_

_-Dehydration_

_-Constipation_

_-Proctitis_

House jots down several more symptoms and contemplates the new information.

“This could make it difficult to conduct any further exploratory procedures. He might even need surgery,” he says thoughtfully. He starts out the door with a jerk of his chin, motioning his team to follow.

Cameron scuttles along next to House with Foreman trailing behind them. “Where are we going?”

“To talk to an intensivist.”

*

A short while later, the diagnostics team is gathered in Chase’s room for a consult.

“Hot Dog Guy has a new symptom," House informs him, "His butt hurts."  
  
With a disapproving frown, Cameron says, “His name is Mr. Stevenson."

"Oh. Well... Has anything come out of it yet?" Chase asks, sounding hopeful. House shakes his head.

"Nope. He's still as backed up as Wilson's divorce attorney."

"He's not responding to the change in laxatives, I take it?"

"Doesn’t seem to be. Now the surrounding area is acting out in protest. And he’s really burned up about the fact that he’s going to miss a pie-eating contest if we don’t have him ship-shape by Saturday, so since horrific injuries are kind of your thing, we come to you for advice.”

Mulling over the surrounding area that House is talking about, Chase asks, "Has he got hemorrhoids? Anal fissures? Rectal bleeding?" 

“Yes, yes, and yes. He’s also got major bloating and violent intestinal cramps.”

“No wonder his butt hurts. How bad are the hemorrhoids?”

“Bad,” Foreman hands him the chart. Chase flips to the report on the rectal exam.

Reading through it, Chase visibly winces. After a moment of deliberation, he says,

“If the area weren’t in such bad shape, I’d say he needs a hemorrhoidectomy, but it might be better to leave it for now. We should focus on healing. Slather on some nitroglycerin to increase blood flow to the area and lidocaine for pain relief, and put him in a sitz bath three times a day. Then maybe we can give him a rubber band litigation to get rid of at least a few of them.”

“And the anal fissures - should we just leave them to heal on their own?” asks Cameron.

Chase deliberates. “You could. But if you want to kill two birds with one stone, they’ll heal better if the sphincter muscle relaxes, which should also help with the pain. Inject him with Botox.”

“Well, Chase, that’s the kind of advice I imagine has been passed down in your family for generations: if it doesn’t look good, inject it with Botox. He’ll have the prettiest sphincter in all the land,” House commends him. He looks to Foreman. “Do it.”

“This looks like IBS,” Chase says, handing Foreman back the chart.

Foreman nods. “We’re treating him for IBS, and monitoring to see if he improves. It’s not like there’s a definitive test we can take to confirm. We have to keep looking for other causes in the meantime.” 

“Have you run a tox screen looking for opiods?”

“Tox screen was clean,” replies Cameron, “No opiods in his system.”

Chase thinks. “Maybe it’s something over-the-counter that wouldn’t show on a tox screen. NSAIDS, antihistamines, Tricyclic antidepressants… even iron supplements. He’s anemic; maybe he tried treating himself and overdid it.”

“Could be,” Foreman glances at Cameron. “We still haven’t checked out the apartment. I’ll do it now.”

“I’ll go with you,” says Cameron, walking after him.

House is also about to leave when Chase stops him, “House.”

House turns around. Chase gestures to his messenger bag, which is sitting on a chair beneath the window.

“My keys are in my bag, in the inner pocket.”

House quirks an eyebrow at him. “You want us to go sneaking around your place, too?”

“It’s not sneaking if I know you’re doing it. And no, I don’t want you to, but you’re going to anyway, so I figured I’d save Foreman the trouble of picking the lock.”

“I don’t know. He loves the adrenaline rush…”

“I’ve got a deadbolt; this is easier. All the meds are in the bathroom cabinet, chemicals are under the kitchen sink, and my sexual role-play costumes from my secret life as a stripper are in the bedroom closet. Can you ask them to water my plants?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Well done on another successful B & E,” House commends his fellows when they’ve returned from the patient’s home carrying a sack full of medications and other items. “You’re breaking into Chase’s place next. Well, technically you’re going to water his plants, but you should have a look around while you’re there.”

“I don’t feel comfortable snooping around his apartment,” Cameron objects. “It’s a conflict of interest. He’s our friend.”

Foreman snorts. Cameron gives him the side-eye.

"Whether or not you see him as him a friend, he's someone you work with every day. This feels like a violation."  
  
"We violate people's privacy all the time - for their own good,” Foreman says simply. “Just pretend it's any other patient."

"You know I can't do that."

“Fine. I’ll go by myself,” Foreman shrugs. “What should I look out for?”

"Certain medications can induce a low white count. Some antihistamines, steroids, and anti-depressants…" Cameron begins, then abruptly back-pedals, “Although I’m not saying that Chase seems depressed. He doesn’t.”

“Maybe that’s because he’s on anti-depressants.” 

"Or maybe he's self-medicating," muses House. "Make sure to look for empty bottles in the trash."  
  
“His mom was a raging alcoholic,” Foreman agrees. “Maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

Cameron glowers at them. “I think we’d know if he was an alcoholic.”

“Not necessarily,” says Foreman. “Alcoholics are sneaky. Chase is sneaky, too.”

House drops the keys into Foreman’s hand.

"Find out what drugs he's on; bring me everything in the medicine cabinet. Check out household cleaners, and see if you find any booze. And make sure to have a good look in his bedroom closet.”  
  
*

“Did you water the plants?” House asks into his cell phone.

“Yeah,” Foreman replies, “they’re looking bright and perky. And before you ask, there’s no toxic-looking plant food.”

“How’s the search going? Find anything unusual?”

“Not really. Unless you count a complete set of first-edition _Harry Potter_ books in the home of a grown man.”

“What rooms have you checked so far?”

“Living room, kitchen, bathroom - I’m in the bedroom now.”

“What’s in the bathroom? He must have an army of hair care products...”

“Nope. Just plain old shampoo and conditioner. Everything is hypoallergenic and unscented. Same goes for the soap and deodorant.”

“What medications are in there?”

“There’s nothing especially interesting in the medicine cabinet. No steroids or anti-depressants, and no prescriptions apart from some allergy meds and a couple of EpiPens. Everything else is basic over-the-counter.”

House considers the information. “Before you leave, talk to the next door neighbors. Find out if either of them has a cat.”

“You think all of this could be from a cat allergy?”

“I think if his allergies are bothering him, he could have overused the antihistamines and depleted his white count. Since his only other allergies are seasonal hay fever and strawberries – which he’s severely allergic to – it would have to be from a cat.”

“Okay, I’ll knock on their doors before I go.”

"Let’s go back to the kitchen. What's in the liquor cabinet?”  
  
"Nothing much. There’s an unopened bottle of vodka in a cabinet and a couple of beers in the fridge; no empties in the trash. Hard to know if it's an accurate reflection of his regular drinking habits, though. He'd been away for a week and a half and came back sick."

“Household cleaners?”

“Standard. Nothing to write home about, unless he’s been drinking them.”

“Bedroom closet?”

“Clothes and shoes,” there’s a slightly amused snort, “His ugly tie collection.”

“No naughty schoolboy uniform? Anything with tear-away pants?”

“I don’t think so.”

Disappointed, House asks, “Is there anything there that’s even remotely of interest?”

There’s an overlong pause where all he can hear is Foreman shuffling around and breathing.

“Maybe,” Foreman finally says. “I’ll call you back. I have to pick a lock.”

*

“He has a sex drawer,” House repeats.

“Most people do,” Foreman shrugs. “It would probably be more unusual if he didn’t.”

“Sure. What’s in it can tell you a lot about a person. Yours, for example, probably contains silk boxer-shorts and Boyz II Men CDs, and Cameron’s contains the key to her chastity belt. What’s in Chase’s?”

“Condoms, lube… a pair of handcuffs.”

House’s face lights up like Christmas. “Anything else?”

“Some scarves, rope and what looks like an invitation to some sort of… sex party,” Foreman mutters in distaste, “I guess this is why he didn’t make it in the seminary.”

“Oh Chase, you dirty boy…” House grins to himself. “How well-worn do the handcuffs look?”

“I don’t know; not really my area of expertise. Do you think I care how often Chase ties up his dates?”

“Or _gets_ tied up,” House corrects him. “He seems like a submissive to me.”

“I really don’t want to know,” Foreman replies, sounding unsettled.

“It could be relevant. Some overeager playmate may have pounded on him a little too hard.”

“There aren’t many sex injuries that result in respiratory symptoms, apart from strangulation,” Foreman says doubtfully.

“Maybe that’s what he’s into,” House replies. “You remember that patient we had who liked being choked? Chase was on a first-name basis with the dominatrix.”

“Even if that’s the case, an injury like that would only account for the sore throat. It doesn’t relate to his other symptoms.”

“It might. Erotic asphyxiation can sometimes lead to vomiting. He could have aspirated into his lungs and caused an infection.”

“That’s pretty unlikely…” 

“So are good little Catholic boys who are into bondage. Although that does sound likely to be my next internet search…”

He can almost hear Foreman’s eyes rolling over the phone. “I talked to the neighbors, by the way – no cats on either side.”

“Then it isn’t the allergy pills. Keep looking around; call me when you’re finished. And bring me everything you found in that drawer.”

*

“So,” House dangles a pair of black leather handcuffs in front of his two fellows, “our overgrown altar boy is apparently a little bit kinky. Let’s find out if his underlying condition is related to who he’s lying under. Test him for HIV and the clap.”

At the scandalized glares he receives, he says,

“What, you don’t think Chase is getting any? Come on! There’s currently a Battle Royale at the nurses’ station over who gets to give him a sponge bath.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s having unprotected sex with them,” Cameron points out. “When I asked him if he had kissed anyone recently, he said no.”

“Most of my dates would say the same thing.”

Foreman looks doubtful. “Men rarely contract HIV from women.” 

House lifts an eyebrow at him in amusement. “You’re assuming he’s straight.” 

“You think he’s bisexual? Based on what?”

“Body language. He’s a flirt.”

“Sure, he loves attention from whoever’s dishing it out. That doesn’t mean that he sleeps with men.”

“He’s twenty-eight; he’d probably sleep with a lamp if it was ready and willing. And I’m sure he has no shortage of offers; there are certainly enough people throwing themselves at him on a daily basis. Hell, if I didn’t know how annoying he is, I’d take him for a roll in the hay myself.”

Foreman rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we get it – Chase is good-looking. He’s also socially awkward, has poor self-esteem, and wears terrible clothes. My money says he’s not sleeping with anyone, gay or straight.”

“Can we stop talking about his sex life?” Cameron complains. “This is getting… tawdry. Can we discuss other options?”

“You don’t like the idea of him having casual sex,” House smirks, “Interesting.”

“I don’t like talking behind his back. If we have questions that are relevant to curing him, we should ask instead of speculating.” 

“You _really_ don’t like the idea that he could have an STD. Are you secretly one of his groupies?”

Cameron rolls her eyes. “HIV is a stretch. There are better things we could test for.”

“Such as?”

Cameron thinks, and says, “A vitamin deficiency. His fridge is empty except for takeout containers, and he thinks French-fries are an acceptable lunch.”

The gears in House’s brain whir for a microsecond; he shakes his head.

“Vitamin deficiencies cause brittle nails and limp, thinning hair. The rest of him might be falling apart, but his hair is still flawless. Nice try, though. Anything else?”

“An overactive spleen could cause low white count.”

“So could Gonorrhea. And you already checked his spleen. No enlargement.”

Having run out of theories, Cameron simply glares at him, radiating disapproval. Undeterred, House claps his hands together.

“Alright - Cameron, go ask your crush if he plays for both teams, and find out if he’s into breath-play. We haven’t ruled out sexual misadventure. Take some blood while you’re at it, and test for HIV and Gonorrhea. Foreman, you go check on Hot Dog Guy; see if his rectal area is improving. And bring a rubber ducky – he’s due for his next sitz bath.”

Given permission, Foreman is out the door like a shot. Cameron, however, doesn’t budge.

“Come on! Foreman thinks he’s a drunk and I’m still the bad guy?” House protests, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We’re testing so we can rule it out, you ninny.”

“I’m not asking him questions about his sex life,” Cameron says bluntly, “unless the tests come back positive. Until then, it’s none of my business.”

House sighs in exasperation. “Fine, let’s go. I’ll ask him myself.”

*

With Cameron trailing after him, House enters Chase’s room and leans in close to squint at him critically.

“Does it burn when you pee? Any unusual discharge seeping out of you in the land _down under_?”

Although his cheeks are already rosy with fever, Chase still manages to blush furiously. “No!”

“Any itching? Swelling? Festering sores?”

“ _No!_ ”

House folds his arms and with a challenging stare says, “Prove it.”

Chase throws a helpless look at Cameron.

“House wants to test you for HIV and Gonorrhea,” she explains a bit sheepishly. “We’re ruling out STDs as an underlying condition. Those are the ones that cause a low white count.”

“I don’t have Gonorrhea and I highly doubt that I’m HIV-positive. But feel free to run the tests,” Chase offers his arm to Cameron and shoots House a dirty look.

Cameron taps for a vein while House buzzes around, asking questions.

“When was the last time you had sex?” he presses on, while Cameron swirls an iodine-soaked cotton ball over Chase’s inner forearm. “Was it with a girl or a boy - or maybe both?”

“Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”

“It’s medically relevant.”

“Only if I test positive for an STD.”

“Not necessarily. If you’re canoodling around town, you could have picked up all sorts of nasty stuff that could be complicating my diagnosis.” 

Chase says flatly, “Test my blood, House. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

House stares at him for a long moment.

“Fine. If you want me to make my own assumptions, I’ll assume you’re bisexual from the way you bat your eyelashes at members of both sexes.

“You’re needy, obviously lonely, and you seek approval and validation from everyone around you. You go along with what other people want and, because of the way you look, what people want from you is sex. Ergo, you’re a slut.”

Chase’s expression goes from slack-jawed surprise to hurt and angry in a matter of seconds. He sets his jaw.

“Brilliant. I guess you’ve got me all figured out, then.”

House continues, “Those S&M parties that you go to: what sorts of kinky things happen there? My guess is that you like to be dominated, maybe even slapped around a little. You certainly don’t object to being treated like a doormat in your day-to-day life. Do you like being choked?”

“No,” Chase says softly, looking away from him.

“You sure about that? Because if you let someone strangle you until you puked, you could have chemical pneumonia from aspiration. This isn’t the time to play coy; we had a look inside your sex drawer. We already know what a little deviant you are.”

“Shut up, House!” snaps Cameron, almost shouting. “Leave him alone! He’s sick.”

“I’m trying to figure out what’s making him sick!” House snaps back.

“Then stop upsetting him and let me take his blood,” Cameron says grimly, before injecting the needle into Chase’s vein.

House goes silent as she carefully extracts a vial of blood and places it in a sample-bag.

Looking over at Chase, he softens a bit. He reaches out and musses Chase’s blond hair affectionately.

“Don’t pout. We’re going to take care of you. You’ll be up and getting spanked again in no time.”

*

Foreman reports back, “The patient seems to be responding well to the IBS treatment. I think once he’s had a chance to heal up a bit more, we should give him an oral lavage with polythene glycol solution, and get him on symptom management therapy.”

“Are you still with the patient?” asks House into his cell phone, from the couch in Wilson’s office. He’s watching _General Hospital_ on his handheld television and sifting through the charts of both his patients.

“No, I’m in the lab – he’s with Cameron. She had some follow-up questions about family history.”

House keeps one eye trained on the small TV screen while he flips to a page on the patient’s chart, glancing over the treatments they’ve administered. “You’re satisfied that it’s IBS after a few days of smooth muscle-relaxants and low-dose anti-depressants?”

“All the symptoms add up,” Foreman impresses on him firmly, “It’s impossible to test for, so all we have to go on is response to treatment. We can give it another few days and keep looking for other causes, but by the looks of things, it’s just another case of an IBS sufferer taking too long to seek medical intervention.”

“Hang on - I’ve got a call on the other line. Don’t go anywhere,” House holds the phone out to determine the incoming caller. It’s Cameron.

House answers the call. “Foreman’s on the other line, so you should probably make it quick - you know how testy he gets when he hasn’t had his Wheaties.”

“The patient’s urine is dark,” Cameron tells him grimly, “which means something is wrong with his kidneys. This isn’t IBS.”

*

“God, I’m so sick of this,” Chase growls in frustration after his latest coughing fit leaves him winded and teary-eyed.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” House reminds him, “You’re making baby Jesus cry.”

“Sorry, Jesus,” Chase mutters, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

Chase has long been accustomed to House abusing him about his hair, his face, his accent, his supposedly privileged upbringing and countless other things, but cracks about his religion are his boss’ latest kick. House has been heckling him about it mercilessly ever since he’d found an ancient photo of Chase in an online archived version of his local newspaper in Melbourne, dressed in his altar boy cassock and surplice, ringing the bell at church at the age of nine.

At least he isn’t the only target of House’s latest mode of harassment; House’s recent addiction to Google-searching his employees on the internet had proved to be a constant source of embarrassment for all three of them. A photo of Foreman dunking a basketball shot had been discovered on his high school website, revealing a perfectly square nineties flat-top with lightning bolts shaved down the sides. Cameron had won a poetry contest in middle school, at the time blissfully unaware that one day her boss would be greeting her with, “Good morning. The dawning sun certainly is spinning golden threads of light above the somber horizon, wouldn’t you say?”

For Chase, it has mostly been comments about him being touched inappropriately by various members of the clergy, and about how much he must like to get down on his knees. House has also started calling him out every time he takes the Lord’s name in vain which, as it turns out, is something he does quite a lot of.

What House conspicuously _hasn’t_ insulted him about any further is the contents of the drawer in Chase’s bedside table. Since their last dealings, Chase has been steeling himself for an onslaught of remarks about his appalling sexual deviance but, so far, House hasn’t uttered another word about it.

Chase almost wishes he would, so that he can find a way to explain himself. If Chase brought it up, it would just be pouring gas on a flame. He wants to tell House that what he’d found in the drawer wasn’t an accurate reflection of his sex life; the items there did serve a purpose, albeit maybe once or twice a year, when a certain inexplicable mood struck. But trying to tell him that would only make Chase look like he was protesting too much, and House probably wouldn’t believe him, anyway. Ultimately, he decides to operate under a life-lesson he’d learned from his mother: that if you ignored a problem willfully enough, you could pretend it didn’t exist.

It’s one in the morning again, and House is here to talk about the case. The tense interaction they’d shared earlier has gone unaddressed and, since House hasn’t brought it up, neither will he. They haven’t made much progress, mostly because of the fluid buildup in Chase’s lungs. He’s coughing so much that even he finds the constant interruptions to be obnoxious and distracting.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be coughing like this if you were actually getting some sleep,” House reproves him. “Every time I come here in the middle of the night, you’re awake.”

“I can’t stop coughing, because I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep, because I can’t stop coughing. If you have any solutions, I’m open to hearing them,” Chase requests irritably. 

“Take these,” House reaches into his pocket and unearths an orange pill bottle; for a few astonished seconds, Chase thinks that House is offering him vicodin. But upon closer inspection, he sees that the bottle contains trazadone, a sleep aid that Chase often prescribes to patients with insomnia.

House shakes two pills into Chase’s hand, and he swallows them dry. “Cheers.”

House silences him with a finger to his lips. “Every time you talk, you cough. It’s giving me a headache. Why don’t we try this: I talk, you listen. You’re behind on the case; let’s start from the beginning.”

House puts on his reading glasses, then opens the file folder and begins to read loosely from it.

“Patient is a 30- year-old male, presenting with severe constipation. In the weeks prior to seeking treatment, he experienced lethargy, weight gain, and nausea. Abdominal x-ray shows that the patient has a large mass in his colon. A course of stimulant-type laxatives were administered, followed by docusate suppositories and an enema of sodium phosphate…”

Chase listens as though to a bedtime story. His tiredness is catching up with him, fast and hard – it must be the trazadone pills kicking in. He starts a small war with his eyelids, hoping that House doesn’t look up from his reading long enough to notice that they’re shutting for long moments, and then bugging open in sudden bursts of enforced wakefulness. After a while of this, he decides it’s more trouble than it’s worth and lets his eyes stay closed, trying to take in whatever information floats through to him.

The last thing he distinctly remembers House saying is something like, “The patient really should get one of those sleep-sound machines that plays sounds of the ocean, or the rainforest, or whatever supposedly soothing crap is meant to send him off to dreamland. The patient’s doctor thinks that sleeping pills only deliver short-term relief, and thinks that the patient really needs to sort his shit out…”

Chase buries his face into the pillow, and falls fast asleep. 

*

“Tests were negative for HIV and Gonorrhea,” Foreman says, returning from the lab the next morning. “Plus I ran a test for Hep C, which can also lower white count. He’s clean.”

"Too bad,” says House, “It’s not strep, either: rapid test was negative. I guess we're back at square one. What else could he have?”

“I stopped by his room on my way here. His cough is worse,” Cameron says, “He sounds like he could have pneumonia.”

Foreman rejects the idea. “Coughs get worse before they get better. It’s just the infection trying to clear itself out.”

House is tapping a bottle of vicodin against his thigh, pills rattling in time with the motion.

“Let’s assume for the moment it’s viral, since the antibiotics aren’t having an effect on anything apart from the ear infection. What viruses besides HIV can cause low white count and secondary infections?”

Cameron replies, “Measles, but he’d be covered in a rash by now, plus he’s had his MMR vaccinations. What if it’s a genetic disorder? Wiskott-Aldrich syndrome causes immunodeficiency.”

“Same deal. He’d have eczema. We’d be able to see it.”

“I've got an idea," proposes Foreman. "How about we forget about Patient #1 for a minute and talk about Patient #2?"

“Hot Dog Guy is responding well to treatment for the kidney problems,” House asserts. “His pee is back to a normal color, and his raging hemorrhoids and anal fissures seem to be healing. It feels like we’re making some headway.”

"The man hasn’t had a bowel movement in sixteen days."  
  
"It's a work in progress. Not to be critical, but your enemas could really use some work. Maybe you'd like a refresher course? Hands-on experience is always the best way forward."  
  
Foreman gives him a hard look. "You have a professional obligation to the patient you've chosen to assign yourself to. That's why we work one case at a time."  
  
House shrugs his shoulders, "Desperate times."

“Not all that desperate. I'm sure your favorite pet will be just fine."

House raises his eyebrows.

"You think I play favorites? I play fetch with all of you. Foreman, who's a good boy?"

“Our patient has kidney damage and his potassium levels are depleted, which means that his heart could be next. Are you sure you want to leave that on the back burner so we can all sit around watching Chase blow his nose?”  
  
"My special skill is juggling. I can toss more than one ball in the air at a time."  
  
"Whatever," Foreman mutters, "I'm going to go help the patient who's actually sick."  
  
"You want to talk about Hot Dog Guy? Fine," House heads for the door, motioning his fellows to follow him, "Let's multi-task."

*

A hacking cough can be heard from the hallway outside Chase’s room. They arrive to find him breathing heavily, looking extremely under the weather.

“Chase, you’re not doing anything right now,” House greets him, “You might as well sit in on the differential.”

“I don’t… I really don’t feel well,” Chase protests weakly. “Now isn’t a good time.”

“Oh, you’re fine, you big baby! Foreman, catch him up on the latest developments.”

Giving House a stony-eyed look, Foreman nonetheless begins his update. 

“The patient is exhibiting signs of kidney damage. His urine was dark, and-“

House interrupts him loudly, cupping a hand around his ear.

“You’ll have to speak up! He still can’t hear very well on account of the double ear infection.” He then turns to Chase. “And _you’ll_ have to speak up on account of the fact that your voice is an inaudible croak. Foreman, you were saying?”

“Urinalysis showed elevated levels of albumin with decreased levels of potassium...“ Foreman is forced to trail off again as Chase breaks into a fit of harsh coughs.

“Geez, can’t you let the guy finish talking? Rude!” House admonishes. Chase, still coughing, gives him a death stare through his watering eyes.

Cameron moves to a nearby table and retrieves a plastic water pitcher. She’s about to fill a cup when House stops her.

“Hey! Get back here, now!”

“I was just going to get some water for -”

“I said _now_.”

“But he’s obviously-“

“He’s fine. Whatever you’re doing can wait until after Foreman is finished. Stop rustling around and get your ass over here.”

Looking at House like he’s just murdered a puppy in front of her, Cameron reluctantly puts down the pitcher and rejoins them. There’s a pause during which all they can hear is a few last spluttering coughs and Chase’s labored breathing. House waves Foreman onward.

It takes Foreman three more tries, all interrupted by coughing fits, to get through his narration. When he’s finally finished, House looks at Chase expectantly.

“Well, don’t you have any thoughts? Questions?”

Half-heartedly, Chase asks, “What are his last vitals?”

“Blood pressure is high: 142 over 90. Heart rate is 79, respiratory rate is 24. Temperature is 98.6.” Foreman tells him and adds, “He’s sweating and shaking, but no fever.”

“Sweats and shakes could mean he’s hypoglycemic,” Chase infers, “Sounds like Type 2 diabetes.”

House snorts loudly, making Chase bristle.

“What? Diabetes would cause the irregular levels of albumin and potassium, high blood-pressure, hypoglycemia, and would result in constipation and renal failure. It fits.” 

“Nice try, but blood-sugar levels are normal. Didn’t Cameron walk you through the blood-panel when she dropped the file off at your apartment?”

“She did,” Chase says meekly, embarrassed. “I must have forgotten.”

“That or you’re loopy. You’ve had a temperature of 102 for four days straight. Any more guesses?”

“Have you checked for kidney stones?”

“Shhh,” House shushes him, “There, there. That must be the fever talking. Of course we checked, you idiot.” 

“It’s a valid question,” Chase scowls. “I’m a bit behind on information.”

“No kidney stones,” confirms Foreman, “Also no signs of injury or enlarged prostate."

"Increased urination?

“Decreased, actually.”

“Is his abdomen distended?”

“Of course it is; he’s been constipated for over two weeks. Why, what are you thinking?”

“See if it’s gas. If it is, he could have an intestinal blockage, which could be an emergency if it’s not treated right away.”

Foreman frowns. “We already know he has a blockage, from the impacted stool.”

“I mean another one, that’s causing the constipation,” Chase says tiredly, rubbing his eyes. “Kidney damage is a sign of paralytic ileus. It could even be caused by appendicitis.”

“We’ve checked out his appendix. It’s healthy.”

“Lots of other causes for blockages,” Cameron chimes in. “Adhesions, hernias, intussusceptions, tumors…”

“Could still be a pseudo-obstruction; certain medications could cause-,” Chase’s voice cracks. He tries clearing his throat, instead bringing on another round of violent coughs.

Fed up, Cameron lunges for the water pitcher and fills a cup. She places it in Chase’s hand and gives House a pointed look.

“It’s time to take the differential elsewhere,” she says firmly. “He can barely breathe. I’m calling for a nurse.”

Cameron is about to hit the call button when House slams his cane down on the table in front of her.

“Give him a cough drop, if it’s bothering you so much. We were talking about the patient’s gas, I believe?”

Chase’s coughing fit finally peters out and he falls back, wheezing. He shuts his eyes and curls onto his side, seemingly forgetting that they’re there.

Foreman purses his lips. “Cameron is right. We should go.”

House holds up a finger, closing his eyes in concentration.

“Quiet. I’m focusing on the crackling sounds of Chase’s lungs. Ambient noise helps me think.”

With a huff of frustration, Foreman snaps, “Okay, you’ve made your point. I never said that he wasn’t sick, just not sick enough to warrant a hospital stay.”

“Really? Because this,” House gestures at the bed, “sounds a whole lot like pneumonia.”

“Alright, let’s x-ray his chest.”

“Good idea. Cameron, take him for an x-ray. Foreman, you go give Hot Dog Guy a cytoscopy, and check him for blockages.”


	5. Chapter 5

“This is silly. I can walk,” Chase protests, as Cameron pushes him along in a wheelchair, House hobbling alongside.

“It’s protocol. You know that,” Cameron reminds him, “If you passed out and hit your head, I’d be in trouble. Consider it doing me a favor.”

“Maybe that would knock some sense into him,” says House. “I say you let him walk.”

The x-ray room is still occupied when they arrive, so they wait in the hall. House takes a seat in a metal chair and Cameron elects to stand. Chase looks like he’s ready to fall asleep in his wheelchair.

After a few minutes of relative silence, Cameron’s pager goes off; then, so does House’s. Glancing down at it she says, “Hot Dog… _Mr. Stevenson_ is experiencing severe abdominal pain.”

House nods at her. “Go down there and help Foreman. I’ll stay here with him.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. _You can’t push the chair_ is implicit.

“I’ll get a nurse to take him back to his room. Go,” House waves her away.

Cameron scurries off, and Chase almost immediately starts hacking up a lung. House waits what feels like several minutes for him to finish, then takes the opportunity to study him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Chase mutters after a moment, sounding as exhausted as he looks.

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me. It’s freaky when you do it. Can’t you just call me an idiot or something?”

“You’re an idiot,” House says distractedly. He lightly brushes a thumb over Chase's lower lip. "Been sucking on any blue popsicles lately?"

Chase squirms a little. "No."  
  
"Hmm, too bad: nice mental image. It also means the blue tinge to your lips is there because you’re not taking in enough oxygen.”

Chase doesn’t respond, except to look even more dejected. A moment later, his eyes begin slipping shut. 

“Hey,” House jounces him, whacking the wheel of the chair with his cane. “Don’t go to sleep. We still need to take the x-rays.”

“Sorry,” Chase blinks his eyes a few times in an effort to keep them open.

Reaching for ways to keep Chase from nodding off in the hallway, House says loudly,

“Differential: what’s causing your low white count? We’re spit-balling viral and hereditary conditions,” He jiggles Chase’s shoulder, “Come on. Think.”

After a long pause, Chase says feebly, “CMV would fit with a lot of the symptoms. Fever, swollen glands, eye issues… pneumonia with hypoxia.”

“Not bad. Not great either, but I’ll test for it.” Watching Chase slump further in his seat he adds, “Later.”

The door opens and a nurse emerges, wheeling out a patient. “The room’s all yours,” she says to House, and then smiles brightly at House’s patient, “Hi, Doctor Chase. I hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”

“Thanks, Amy.”

House rolls his eyes. “Come on. You can walk for this part.”

*

House stands awkwardly, shifting his weight from his leg to his cane while he waits for Chase to finish coughing. His leg is beginning to ache.

When he’s finally done, Chase looks up a bit guiltily, noticing House’s painful stance. “Sorry. Let’s get started.”

House unceremoniously shoves a tissue-box at him. “Here. Your nose is running.”

Looking dispirited, Chase takes a tissue and wipes his nose.

Having already loaded a cassette into the wall buggy, House has Chase stand in front of the board and begins centering the central ray. Chase is more alert now that he’s on his feet, and several shades grumpier.

“Stand up straight,” House orders, “put your chin up.”

Chase straightens his shoulders and lifts his head. “Can you stop fiddling with that? It’s centered.”

“What’s the rush? Have some important ‘lying in bed, coughing’ that you need to get back to?”

“Actually, yes. I’m tired, and this is embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not. Sitting on a whoopee cushion is embarrassing. This is something you do every day, except you’re usually the guy operating the machine. Get over yourself.”

“I’m in a hospital gown with mucus leaking out of my face, being wheeled around by Cameron.”

“And yet, you’re still setting panties on fire wherever you go,” Aligning the machine to Chase’s height, he mimes a high female voice, “Hi, Doctor Chase. Enjoy your x-ray. I wish I had x-ray vision so I could see through your lab coat.”

Chase looks even more embarrassed. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, it is very much like that. I know you’re temporarily deaf, but you’re not blind - so don’t play dumb.”

“Not everyone needs an ulterior motive for being nice.”

“You tell yourself that because the alternative makes you uncomfortable. Shoulders forward.”

“I know how to stand for a chest x-ray. You don’t have to instruct me,” Chase grumbles, standing close to the board and taking in a deep breath.

“Fine. I’ll just tell you when to change positions.”

House takes several exposures, while Chase goes through the motions of turning to the side and raising his arms above his head.

“There, that wasn’t so bad. Now go get back in your chair, I’ll call for a nurse to take you back to your room. I’m sure they’ll come running.”

*

Cameron examines the images on the light-box through her glasses. "Consolidation and air bronchograms in both lungs. We were right; he has pneumonia.”

“Good,” Foreman says from his seat at the conference table, where he’s making notes on his charts. At Cameron’s appalled look he adds, “Not for him, obviously. But it means House has his diagnosis, and we can get back to focusing on one case.”

Cameron gives him a skeptical look. “I doubt House will be satisfied. It still doesn’t explain all his symptoms.”

“Where is he anyway?” Foreman glances at the door as though House might be invoked by the question.

“No idea. Probably bothering Wilson or Cuddy. Or Chase.”

“No, he’s asleep. I just stuck my head in to check his oxygen levels.”

“Look at you, all concerned,” Cameron teases.

“That’s because he’s legitimately sick. In that case, I’ll treat him like any other patient.”

“Speaking of which, we should start him on azithromycin and ribavirin, now that we’ve confirmed the pneumonia,” Cameron removes her glasses, tucking them back inside their case. “Did he seem okay? He sounded terrible, earlier.”

“His breathing is less labored, and his saturation level has gone up to 92 percent now that we’ve put him on oxygen. Still not great, but it’s an improvement.”

Cameron’s eyes linger on the frontal x-ray of Chase’s lungs. “Poor Chase,” she sighs, “I hope he finally starts getting better.”

“I hope so, too,” says Foreman, going back to his notes, “if only so House can stop obsessing about him.”

*

House is pondering the conundrum that is his first and youngest fellow.

After dropping Chase off with instructions to shut up and go to sleep, House had felt a nagging need to pick him apart, ideally under a microscope. Needing some peace and quiet to think without his other fellows and Cuddy swarming around like mosquitoes, he’d kicked Wilson out of his own office and had taken his desk. 

On top of the desk is a pile of various items: the contents of Chase's locker (days earlier, he'd browbeaten Foreman into picking the lock) and Chase’s messenger bag, which House had taken from his room while he was asleep.  
  
Chase's hospital ID badge sits on top of the belongings he’d found inside the locker (House had unpinned it from his lab coat); he's potentially the only staff member in the history of PPTH to have taken a decent headshot. He looks extremely young in the photo (there’s still some baby fat left in his cheeks); House supposes that, at twenty-four, he had been. House has seen him wear this badge every day for four years, but he’d never once actually looked at it.  
  
Also inside the locker was a worn copy of _A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ , read about two-thirds of the way through (naturally, Chase had been dog-earing the pages), a spare EpiPen for his strawberry allergy, a bottle of generic ibuprofen, and a gym bag containing black shorts, a grey t-shirt and a pair of Nike sneakers.  
  
The most personal item he’d found there is a black moleskin journal, sadly not containing diary entries (" _Dear Diary, House was mean to me again today. I cried in the shower while deep-conditioning my hair.”_ ). The pages are filled with concise and observant notes on several of their most recent cases. This interests House a bit, because Chase never takes notes during differentials (although he’s obsessive in his attention to detail when it comes to his charts). He must have been jotting these down on his own time.

The messenger bag, which Chase carries to and from work, contains innocuous little items like gum, a pair of in-ear headphones, a reusable water bottle, a crossword book, several pens and pencils (predictably chewed within an inch of their lives), another EpiPen, and a brown leather wallet.

Inside the wallet, he finds twenty-six dollars and change, several credit and ID cards, Chase’s driver's license, and a few receipts. The personal information on Chase’s New Jersey driver's license (again, he bucks convention with a nice-looking photo) reads:  
  
Chase, Robert Rowan  
Sex: M  
Height: 5'10"  
Weight:160  
Hair: Blond  
Eyes: Green  
DOB: 2/12/1979

The receipts are mostly from the hospital cafeteria and the nearby gas station, but House notes with interest that there are two from his recent trip. One is from a travel shop in the Singapore airport, where Chase had purchased water, gum, and flight-socks. The other is from a flower shop in Melbourne, where Chase had spent ten Australian dollars on a rose.

*

“Cytoscopy revealed no bowel obstruction apart from the impacted stool,” Foreman tells House, when he eventually comes to join them. “Chase was right about one thing, though – the patient has been unable to pass gas for three days.”

“Explains the bloating and tummy-ache,” House says without looking up from his fingers, playing with his Cat’s Cradle, “If he can’t pass gas or stool, we have to unblock him. Prepare him for a laparoscopy.”

“Shouldn’t we see if we can get him to release it supportively first?” asks Cameron hesitantly.

“It’s too late for that; we need to let the gas out. Unfortunately, our best surgeon is sick, so one of you will have to do it. Which of you wants to be the one to pull his finger?”

They glance at one another. “Rock, paper, scissors?” suggests Foreman.

*

House is pulling another late night at the hospital. For the past several hours, he’s been in the lab, poring over a gram stain and sputum culture. He’d woken Chase up briefly to demand some phlegm for a sample, which his groggy, irritable employee had been reluctant to give him, as if he didn’t have plenty to go around. 

The gram stain had tested negative for bacteria, supporting House’s suspicions that they were likely dealing with something viral. The sputum culture is still a work in progress. Feeling tired but hoping for a second wind, House stretches his arms over his head and yawns elaborately. He decides to stretch his legs with a walk to wake himself up. He wonders if Chase is awake.

Taking a stroll down to the second floor, House feels a stab of irrational disappointment when he arrives in Chase’s room to find him asleep. He’d been hoping to spitball ideas off him, or maybe just rile him up and watch him get flustered. This is purely selfish, of course; Chase needs all the sleep he can get, and House needs to start resisting the urge to keep him up at night for company.

Prior to Chase’s hospital admission, he’d only ever seen Chase asleep a handful of times here and there, when he’d nodded off after pulling a double-shift or an impromptu all-nighter. Once during the early days when Chase was his only fellow, House had left him lying face flat on the conference table, going on about his day as normal while Chase took a nap that lasted his entire shift. It had been worth it for his panicked expression when Chase had woken up and realized where he was, looking down to find that he’d dribbled on the case-file. Another time, when he’d conked out on the blue couch in the staff room, House had drawn a mustache on him with permanent marker and woke him up by blowing in his ear.

Since he’s already here, House figures he might as well take a look at his patient. Chase’s vitals are showing small improvements, and the medications seem to be doing their jobs. His 02 stats are still a bit low for House’s liking, but could be a lot worse, given that the hapless little idiot has managed to come down with pneumonia. They’ve caught it early enough that he shouldn’t feel the brunt of it too badly. His breathing isn’t great; his chest still whistles with every inhalation and his nose is obviously still blocked from the way he’s breathing only through his mouth, but the oxygen-mask seems to be doing most of the work for him. If all continues to go well overnight, House will take the mask off and switch him to a nasal cannula in the morning.

In light of the latest developments, House is more convinced than ever that some mystery invader is calling the shots inside Chase’s body. His symptoms have been coming on too hard and too fast to be from something normal. Despite Foreman’s protestations, it’s clear to House that the pneumonia is simply a symptom like everything else, albeit a serious one. He wonders what other ugly surprises they may have in store if they don’t hurry up and get to the bottom of it.

He can’t examine Chase properly without waking him, so he makes do with simply gazing down at him. He would never be caught dead doing this during the day, but at night it’s quiet enough that he isn’t concerned about being intruded upon. Even if a nurse were to pop in and find him here, he could always grab Chase’s wrist and claim to be checking his pulse.

How Chase looks has to be judged on a sliding scale. On the Chase-o-meter, he’s looking pretty terrible: about a three out of ten. But Chase on his worst day still looks better than most people do on their best; even now, he’s still irritatingly pretty. With his lips slightly parted and his golden hair fanned out behind him on the pillow, he looks like a Disney princess ready to be kissed awake.

House is tempted to mess up his hair. He’s seriously considering it.

He grimly acknowledges that he must be truly exhausted to be thinking in this vein, and should probably get out of here immediately. He has better things to do than stand here listening to Chase’s pathetic wheezing and sniffling; if he leaves now, he can still catch a few late-night reruns of _Baywatch_.

Checking the vitals monitor one last time, House decides to call it a day. He quietly leaves the room and departs the hospital, shaking off any lingering thoughts in hopes of a relaxing evening to himself, followed by a long and dreamless sleep.

*

“We’ve had a breakthrough – literally,” House announces the next morning. “Hot Dog Guy finally pooped.”

“The new laxatives must be having an effect,” Chase nods approvingly. After a long sleep and a full day and night on oxygen therapy, he’s looking and sounding a good deal better.

“Don’t get too excited just yet,” Foreman warns him. “It’s not normal bowel activity.”

“Why, what’s the problem?”

House supplies, "Violent diarrhea."  
  
Chase's eyebrows go up. "How violent are we talking?”  
  
"Imagine a fire hose, except instead of water-"  
  
"Very," Foreman cuts House off abruptly.  
  
"Well..." Chase tries to muster up some optimism. "That's good, isn't it? Even if it is just...overflow?”  
  
"Maybe," Foreman shrugs. "We're still not sure what broke the dam, as it were. It could be from the laparoscopy, or the magnesium-based laxatives we started him on. Once the expulsion slows down, we'll do another CT to see whether there's been any real improvement."

“Any blood in his stool?” Chase wonders.

“Not sure. How come?”

“Chrohn’s disease. It would cause the anemia, belly pain, trapped gas, rectal bleeding and now the bad diarrhea.”

“Chrohn’s is notoriously difficult to diagnose…” Foreman rubs his chin thoughtfully, “It’s worth investigating.”

"You see? I knew he'd be useful," House gives Foreman a smug look. "And Foreman thought talking to you would be a complete waste of time."  
  
"What I actually said was 'leave him alone, he's not at work and he has pneumonia'."  
  
"I'm happy to help with the case,” Chase assures him, “Gives me something to do other than just sit here."  
  
"I like this room," House announces, looking around admiringly. "I think we should start doing differentials in here. I’m going to get us a second whiteboard."  
  
Foreman’s eyes roll heavenward, "Please tell me you're kidding."  
  
"Why not? A change of scenery is good for the thought process. Let’s shake things up."  
  
"By working in a room on the ward?"

“It's cozy. Natural light. Nice view."  
  
"It’s facing a brick wall."  
  
"Nice bricks. Burnt Clay are my favorites."  
  
"You know what? I give up," Foreman holds his hands up. “I’m going to go collect a stool sample and find out if there’s any blood.”

“I’ll run an imaging test,” Cameron offers. Before leaving, she smiles at Chase and gently squeezes his shoulder, “I’m glad to see you looking better. I was getting worried.”

He smiles back. “Thanks, Cameron. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m already feeling much better.”

*

“He’s getting worse,” Foreman says.

“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer,” advises House. “Just because there’s a little blood in the great sea of diarrhea doesn’t mean that he’s dying. It’s literally a drop in the bucket.” He’s rummaging through a stack of Tupperware containers on a side table in Chase’s room. “What cookies have we got today?”

Chase feels his cheeks heat up.

A couple of friendly nurses that he often chats with have been bringing him cookies to cheer him up. It was really sweet of them, he thought, but House has been ribbing him about it so much that he’s starting to wish that they’d stop.

House narrows his eyes at a plastic container.

“Store-bought Chocolate Chip: lacks a personal touch. She wanted an excuse to come talk to you, but couldn’t be bothered to bake anything herself; she’s not overly invested. Unlike this one,” he holds up a decorative box, “with the homemade Lamingtons. She’s completely obsessed with you.”

“What’s a Lamington?” asks Foreman, eyeing the square coconut-covered cakes.

“Traditional Australian dessert. The fact that you have to ask is exactly my point.”

Foreman takes the box from House and removes the lid, sniffing in consideration. “Can we talk about the patient?”

“We biopsied for Chrohn’s,” Cameron tells Chase. “Doesn’t look like it, but it’s hard to say for sure.”

Chase shrugs. “Any more new symptoms?”

"He’s rapidly losing weight. He’s down almost ten pounds.”

“Probably on account of the geyser coming out of his butt,” says House, opening up a round blue tin. “Oatmeal Raisin, yuck. Who tries to get a date with raisins? Don’t go out with the raisin girl, Chase.”

“He’s started eating again. What if he’s not absorbing the nutrients?” Foreman says thoughtfully, chewing a bite of Lamington.

“We should test for mineral deficiencies,” Chase suggests, “We already know he’s lacking potassium and iron. Maybe there’s more that we don’t know about.”

Behind them, House snorts in disbelief.

“Strawberry Shortbread cookies? Jesus, this one’s actually trying to kill you. Maybe she thinks if she can’t have you, no one will.”

Cameron grabs the box from House. “Give me that!”

She hurries out of the room, clutching the box of cookies like it’s about to detonate.

“Why, is it that time of the month? If you want, I can have Chase call the nurse’s station expressing an urge for Cookie Dough ice cream!” House calls after her.

“I think she’s disposing of the potentially lethal allergen,” Foreman says blandly, plucking another Lamington from the box.

“We should check his electrolyte levels,” Chase continues, “and put him on a vitamin drip to see if he improves.”

“These suck,” House says through a mouthful of cookie, “Tell Seven-Layer girl her cookies taste like the seventh layer of Hell.”

“Are you even listening?” Foreman wonders.

“You and Chase think it’s a mineral deficiency and electrolyte imbalance resulting in malnutrition. Given that the patient was admitted after scarfing down 37 fully loaded dogs, I can appreciate the irony. Start him on an intravenous multivitamin infusion and run an electrolyte panel. See what else he’s deficient in besides IQ points.” 

*

It’s late at night in House’s apartment. He’d spent the evening drinking bourbon and catching up on the latest episodes of _The OC_. At some point or other, he’d started nodding off, half-drunk on the sofa with the sounds of poppy indie music filling his ears.

He’s almost fully asleep when he hears a creaking noise behind him. His heart jumps when he registers the sound of breathing and he feels the almost palpable presence of another person in the room.

Grabbing his cane as a weapon and wheeling around, he isn’t at all prepared for what he sees.

“ _Chase?_ What the hell are you doing here?” House’s eyes widen with alarm.

It’s Chase alright, but somehow he doesn’t look very… Chase-like. He doesn’t look sick, for one thing. He’s not wearing Chase-ish clothes, either. Instead of one of his goofy tie and sweater-vest combos, he’s dressed in black leather pants and a fitted long-sleeved shirt that’s bordering on tight. He’s staring at House with an unfamiliar intensity that makes him look almost… hungry.

“You broke into my drawer,” he says simply.

“You idiot, you’re supposed to be in the hospital! What moron let you sign yourself out?” House has a million other questions racing through his head; these are just the first few that come out of his mouth.

“I gave you permission to look through my things,” Chase continues, unruffled. A small smile plays on his lips. “You think you found something I didn’t want you to see?”

House is, for once, at a loss for words. This is weird, it’s mind-bogglingly weird and he’s still way too drunk to come up with anything resembling a snappy comeback. Chase is really freaking him out.

Then all of a sudden, Chase is across the room and on the couch, almost slithering up him. He crawls on top of House to straddle his lap, thighs pinning him on either side. He leans down close enough that their noses brush and his hair is tickling House’s cheeks. He whispers,

“You were wrong about me. I like to be on top.”

With that, he seizes House’s wrists, gripping them tight and pushing them over his head against the armrest; he’s stronger than he looks. His blond hair is lit like a halo by the ceiling lamp, his boyish features set in a look of resolve as he restrains House’s struggling arms. He hovers in so close that their lips are almost touching, his breath warm against House’s mouth.

“You’ll do as I say, now,” Chase tells him, dipping so their lips graze, feather-soft, and then- 

House gasps, flying awake with a start.

His mouth tastes like bourbon. The room is quiet, apart from strains of the closing theme to _The OC_ coming from the surround-sound. He’s alone, with a painful erection.

He grabs the bottle of bourbon, takes a deep swig and pants, “Oh, fuck.”


	6. Chapter 6

"Why would Chase have bought a single rose during his stay in Melbourne?" House asks his other two fellows the following day.  
  
"Dunno. Maybe he has an old girlfriend there that he's still sweet on," says Foreman, taking a sip from his coffee mug.  
  
"Why one rose? Why not a bouquet?" House wonders.

"A bouquet would be overkill, but a single flower would be romantic," Cameron enlightens them, smiling.  
  
Foreman wrinkles his nose. "Isn't it kind of cheesy to bring flowers on a date?"  
  
"Maybe it is, but girls still love it," Cameron says with a shrug.  
  
"What if it wasn't an old girlfriend? Who else would you give a rose to?" House presses on.  
  
"Doesn't he have a younger sister?" Foreman recalls vaguely.

Cameron shakes her head. "His stepmother has a daughter. They're not blood-related or close."

“Maybe he gave it to the stepmom as a peace offering, to butter her up for the house sale,” House says, without conviction.  
  
“Maybe he wanted to learn the Tango and hold it between his teeth. What does it matter?" asks Foreman, losing patience with the subject.  
  
"It matters because he lied about it," House says simply. "He said that the only time he left the house was when he went surfing. If he went out with someone, we need to know."

Foreman shrugs. "If you think it’s important, go ask him yourself."  
  
*

Chase is working on a crossword puzzle when House interrupts him; of course he’s gnawing away at his pencil. House doesn’t know why this annoys him so much, but it does. Stupid wombat. Stupid oral fixation. House is tempted to smack it right out of his hand and throw it across the room.

“You lied,” says House, limping over to the bed. Chase looks up sharply.

House stands over him, leveling Chase with his best scary-boss look. Chase looks appropriately intimidated and puts the pencil down. _Good._

“What are you talking about?” asks Chase, his tone a bit too measured for House’s liking.

“You went out frolicking with an old girlfriend. And you bought her a rose.”

Chase relaxes, going so far as to look at House scornfully. “No I didn’t.”

“Okay, maybe not an old girlfriend. But you went out with someone.”

"I didn't go out with anyone,” Chase repeats adamantly, “I didn't see anyone apart from lawyers and, very briefly, my father's wife."

"Don't you have any friends?" 

Chase glares. “It was a short visit.” 

"Who'd you buy the flower for?"

"None of your business."

"But it is,” House insists. “Everything about you is my business until I have my diagnosis. Get used to it."

"I promise it has nothing to do with your bloody diagnosis."  
  
"I promise I don’t care whether you think so or not. You didn't buy it for your stepmom...'father's wife' doesn't imply a close relationship. Maybe a housekeeper? Former nanny?"

"Alright, it was for my Mum's housekeeper," Chase confesses. "She's worked there since I was a kid. I thought it would be a nice gesture."

"No, you didn't. No one buys a single rose for the cleaning lady. You'd have bought a bouquet of mixed flowers. You're lying."  
  
Chase grumbles, "Maybe I just bought it because I wanted to, alright?"

"You buy yourself flowers?"

"I took it to the cemetery, you ass!" Chase finally snaps. "There. Now are you happy?"

"Now that you told the truth? Yup."

Chase folds his arms and makes a show of stewing at him in resentment. House tries connecting dots with the new information.

"Nice visit with the folks?" he asks after a moment, to break the silence.

"Fine."

"Only one flower. I'm guessing two graves, what with the bitter divorce and all..."  
  
"My parents are off limits, House. Leave off."  
  
"Touchy," House holds up his hands, feigning innocence. "Flowers are obviously for Mom. Did you get Dad something manlier? Maybe one of those little football flags you stick in the ground?"

"I answered your question. You can go away now," Chase rolls over in bed to face the wall.

After that, he refuses to engage with any further pestering, and House eventually gives up. He decides to go pay Wilson a visit, and deal with the thing that’s been distracting him. If he doesn’t, he’s worried he might do something truly moronic and ask Chase if he can stay and hang out.

  
*

House finds Wilson sitting at his desk, eating a turkey club sandwich and French-fries. House takes the seat across from him and swoops in on a sandwich-half, snatching it up and sinking his teeth in.

“You like to bone your patients,” he opens, chewing loudly. “I’ve got an enigma. Maybe you can help.”

“Anything I can do to make your day easier,” Wilson obliges, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “And yes, of course – feel free to have my lunch.”

House leans back in his chair and says, “Cameron had a sex dream about the patient.”

Wilson’s eyebrows go up. “Chase?”

“No. The other one.”

Wilson gives him a quizzical look. “She’s having erotic dreams about the guy whose diarrhea requires its own septic tank?”

“The heart wants what it wants.”

“Did she tell you what the dream was about?” Wilson asks hesitantly.

“It was a sexy dream. Do you actually need details?”

Wilson considers. “I guess not. Have she and the patient bonded over anything – a shared experience, or things they have in common?”

“Not particularly. Maybe they’ve been spending time together, while she’s been working on his diagnosis…”

“And do they have chemistry? Or do you think the dream was random?”

“Random. But why would she be dreaming about the patient in the first place?”

“She works in diagnostics,” Wilson says with a shrug. “When you’re focusing on a case, you have to learn everything about the person to figure out what’s wrong with them. You think about them all day, spend time with them, and see them at their most vulnerable; you literally have their life in your hands. Most doctors wouldn’t like to admit it, but it can create a powerful bond.”

“So that’s why your phone number is written on every bathroom wall in the cancer ward?”

Wilson takes a bite of his sandwich. “You asked a question. I answered it.”

House unearths a bottle of vicodin from his pocket, popping the cap and deftly throwing several into his mouth. “So you’re saying it’s the doctor-patient dynamic that creates the feeling of attraction. When the case is over, she won’t be thinking about him anymore.”

Wilson pauses mid-chew. After swallowing, he opens his mouth to speak, then stops to take a breath first. Carefully, he asks, “Do you think Cameron might actually have some sort of feelings for the patient?”

House shakes his head vehemently, “Definitely not.”

“Then I guess she has nothing to worry about,” Wilson says blithely. “It’s not like she’ll ever have to see him again after he’s discharged. That would make things more complicated.”

“Or maybe she just needs to get a hooker who looks like him, and get it out of her system.”

Wilson slams a hand on the desk in confirmation. “You had a sex dream about _Chase?_ ”

House swivels the chair back and forth, frowning pensively. “I doubt any of my usual escort services deal in floppy-haired Australians. I may have to do some online shopping.”

“Now I need details,” Wilson demands. “You can’t just throw that out there without anteing up.”

“Alright, fine. I dreamt that he came to my apartment and jumped me. He held me down and basically told me I was his sex-slave.”

“ _He_ dominated _you_?”

“Dream-Chase is a lot more forceful than the genuine article. He was wearing leather pants.”

“Where did this come from?” Wilson wonders, “Sure, you’ve been spending more time with him, but as your patient. Where do leather pants and domination come into it?” 

“Foreman found his sex dungeon when he checked out the apartment.”

“And by ‘sex dungeon’ you mean…?” 

“He’s got a drawer next to his bed that says he’s into bondage.”

“Okay… What exactly was in there?”

“Handcuffs. Rope. A sex-party invitation.”

Wilson looks faintly shell-shocked. “Okaaay. Now I can see why you’re dreaming about him. He’s flipped the script on you without even having to try.”

“That, and the fact he’s constantly in my face,” House laments, “He insisted on working the other case, so now he’s not only my employee and my patient, he’s both at the same time. Not to mention that I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with him. No wonder I can’t stop thinking about the little twerp.”

“You’re letting him work a case from his hospital bed? House!” Wilson scolds.

“He wanted to. Who am I to stop him?”

“Oh, I don’t know - his doctor _and_ his boss?”

House waves him off. "Chase is a big boy, he can make his own decisions. And never tell him I said this but, apart from me, he comes up with the most correct diagnoses. Plus, I get twice as much out of Foreman when he’s around and I can pit them against each other. He’s useful.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Wilson grouses. “And even if what you’re saying is true, that isn’t the reason you’re doing it.”

“What, you think I’m letting him in on the case because I want to jump his bones?”

“I think it’s because he asked, and gave you the puppy-dog eyes, and despite your better judgment, you couldn’t say no.”

House looks doubtful. “It’s not that. It’s probably the bone-jumping.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”

House stands and stretches his arms, cracking his back indulgently in a series of loud pops. “On that note, tonight I’m going to find myself a nice blond hooker, and have him paddle me into submission while wearing a lab coat and sucking on a pencil. Tomorrow, I’ll be right as rain.”

“Obviously the mature way to address the situation,” Wilson nods. “Nice to know that you have something to look forward to.”

“Good talk, Wilson. All is right with the world,” House pats Wilson on the shoulder, and reaches down to snag a French-fry off his plate before he goes. 

*

“How’s our patient?” House asks Cameron and Foreman after they’ve returned from performing checkups. He clarifies, “The blond one.”

“He’s doing really well,” replies an upbeat Cameron. “Sore throat is gone, eye and ear infections have completely cleared up, and his stats are much better than they were a few days ago. His oxygen saturation is back within normal range, and his temperature has finally gone down for the first time since he was admitted, to 100.2. Touch wood, but I’d say he’s on the road to recovery.”

“He’s responding to the anti-virals,” House ruminates, half to himself. “But we still don’t know what virus it is we’re treating.”

“Well, whatever it is, the treatment is working,” shrugs Foreman. “We can keep testing him until the cows come home, but by the time we figure it out, he may have already made a full recovery.”

“Or he could get some other complication that the ribavirin isn’t up to the task of taking on,” House rebuffs.

"We can cross that bridge when -- and _if_ \-- we come to it,” Foreman says, unworried. “The most important thing to focus on right now is clearing the pneumonia.”

“Absolutely,” House agrees. “But we’re not going to stop looking into the cause until I have a confirmed diagnosis; I don’t care how perky he looks. We’ll keep theorizing, and hone in on viruses. How’s the other patient?”

“He’s not doing so well,” Cameron replies with a frown, “His urine is dark again, which means his kidneys are still in decline. And he’s severely dehydrated from losing so much fluid.”

“He’s expelling the medication before it has a chance to take effect,” Foreman adds. “We should start administering it intravenously.”

“Have any of the tests come back?”

“Not yet. I’ll swing by the lab.”

“Administer his meds intravenously and get him on IV fluid,” House instructs, “As for Chase, put him on ventolin through a nebulizer twice a day for the lung congestion and guaifenesin for the cough.”

"Did you ask Chase about the flower?” Cameron, the eternal romantic, can’t help but ask.

House nods. “He visited the cemetery. It was for his mom.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Cameron coos. House and Foreman jointly ignore her.

"You think he could have managed to pick up something while he was there?" Foreman asks with a pensive frown.  
  
House considers the possibility. “Unlikely. Cemeteries aren’t usually a breeding ground for viruses, or even fungus. Unless he threw himself down on the ground and started hugging the grave. Or dug a hole and crawled in there beside her," House says. "Either is possible, in his case."  
  
"I meant more along the lines of a tick-bite."  
  
"Right. We should look into that, too. I’ll ask him."

“Be sensitive,” Cameron reproaches, “We shouldn’t be nosing around in his grief. Some things are private.”

“I’m still grieving the loss of my outer thigh, but if you want to nose around down there, feel free,” House replies, popping a vicodin. “Go get our patients on their new regimes, and stop by the lab to check on the test results. Then let’s spend some time brainstorming. I want new ideas from both of you.”

*

House and his two fellows have been drifting around in silence for at least twenty minutes. They’ve taken turns wandering over to the board and fruitlessly examining it.

"What if he has SARS?" Foreman says suddenly, after staring off for a while.

“Mr. Stevenson?” asks Cameron, looking up from her cold cup of tea.

“No. Chase.”

Becoming animated, she chews her lip in a look of consideration. “He said there was a person coughing on the flight from Hong Kong to Melbourne - SARS is still rife in China. It causes respiratory symptoms and fever, and can be complicated by secondary infections and pneumonia. Symptoms would improve with the ribavirin.”  
  
Foreman looks grim. "It’s also extremely contagious. If he has it, so do we."  
  
“Especially you, after he sneezed in your face,” House reminds him. “How’s that going, by the way?”

“I feel fine,” Foreman shrugs, “But if he was exposed on the plane, he had a ten day incubation period before onset. I’m not there yet.”

“Incubation period fits with SARS,” House nods in approval. "So do symptoms - I like it. Let’s give him an antibody test and PCR to confirm. Put him in isolation and then quarantine yourselves until we get the test results."

“You’ll have to quarantine, too,” Foreman warns him.

“I know. It’ll be a nice break from our hum-drum routine. We’ll have fun.”

Shrugging their shoulders at one another, Cameron and Foreman are up and nearly out the door before House adds,

"And be sure to let Cuddy know. We might have a pandemic on our hands."

*  
  
"You're telling me that we might have a SARS outbreak at the hospital," Cuddy reiterates, arms folded across her cleavage.

“Isn’t it exciting?” House knocks on the glass wall between them.  
  
"Not the descriptor I’d choose. I've already had to quarantine twelve nurses, three administrative staff and your entire department. Is there anyone else that Chase has come into close contact with?"

“Wilson.”

“Great,” Cuddy mutters. “Any other department heads?”

“None that I know of. But that woman who heads up Pediatrics does seem to have taken a shine to him, so who knows?”

Cuddy frowns deeply, “Duly noted. Just... stay put, and behave yourselves while I figure this out.”

*

An hour later, House and his fellows are gathered in Chase’s isolation room. Cuddy bangs vigorously on the glass.  
  
"What the hell are you doing in there, House?”  
  
“Slumber party," House replies, "I was thinking we could order pizza, maybe have a pillow fight if Chase is feeling up to it, then braid each other's hair. Granted, Foreman doesn’t have any hair, but I bet he could put some badass cornrows on Cameron."  
  
"Chase is in isolation and the rest of you are in quarantine. That's why you were all given separate rooms."  
  
House jerks a thumb at Chase. "Patient Zero here has been sneezing all over us for days; if he has it, we've already been exposed. I figure we might as well keep each other company."

"He needs to rest, and you need to follow policy," Cuddy informs him, placing her manicured hands on her hips. "In the event that any of you do test positive, this hospital becomes the epicenter of a potential outbreak. The press will be camped outside, and the last thing I need is reports getting out that my infected staff flouted quarantine for no good reason."  
  
"We have good reason! We're working a case, or did you forget?"  
  
"I’ll hand the case off until we get test results. As long as they’re negative, you can have it back.”  
  
"Does your bureaucracy know no bounds? A man's life hangs in the balance! Does that mean nothing to you?" House shouts righteously.  
  
"Remind me again who we're talking about?"  
  
"The patient. Whatsisname. You know. The guy with the volcanic ass."

“Mr. Stevenson," Cameron translates wearily.  
  
"Yes, poor Mr. Stevens, a man who is going to die, because you're too busy covering your ample backside!"  
  
Cuddy presses her lips together tightly; she looks from House to Chase.  
  
"Doctor Chase, how are you feeling?"  
  
"I'm alright. Really,” Chase assures her, “I’d like to help with the case."  
  
Her eyes flick back over to House. "Read me his vitals?"  
  
House reads them off the monitor. Cuddy purses her lips for a moment, then nods.  
  
"Alright. Doctor Cameron, I'm putting you in charge. The moment Chase begins to look tired, I want you to clear everyone out of the room. Until then, you can work on the case."

“Thanks, Mom!” grins House. “I was serious about the pizza, by the way. I told them to deliver it to your office, since pizza-delivery guys probably aren’t allowed in the quarantine zone. Feel free to have a slice of the Meat Lovers - I figure that’s right up your alley. But keep your mitts off my cheesy garlic dough balls.”

“I know what I’d like to do with your dough balls,” Cuddy mutters, stalking off down the hall.

*

“Okay… ten-inch veggie goes toooo…”

Cameron raises her hand, and House extends the box.

“Medium ham and pineapple?” 

He passes a box to Foreman, who opens it and chomps into a slice before he’s even back in his chair.

House frowns at Chase’s order. “Minestrone soup?”

Chase shrugs his shoulders at House’s look of accusation. “I’m sick.” 

“Sick in the head, at the very least,” House glowers, personally offended, “I said you could order whatever you wanted – the bill’s on Cuddy.”

“I wanted soup.”

With a look of pure disgust, House thrusts the container at him. Chase sets it on the over-bed table, removing the lid to let some of the steam off.

Chase’s three colleagues sit in chairs around the bed that he’s propped up in, mostly upright. House has ordered himself an extra-large, double-cheese Meat Lovers pizza with stuffed crust, an order of cheese-covered garlic dough-balls, blue-cheese dipping sauce and a large Coke.

House commences, “In honor of Hot Dog Guy, we’ve ordered pizza from the place he works at. Bon appétit.”

“Pretty good pizza,” remarks Foreman, chewing his first slice down to the crust.

“I’ll tell him you said so. He was recently named Employee of the Month,” Munching loudly on a dough ball, House says, “So, what’s causing his kidneys to fail?”

“Malnutrition,” Foreman asserts. “The tests prove that he’s extremely deficient in minerals, and his electrolyte balance is way off. It’s not his diet; he eats well, apart from the binges. An underlying condition is keeping his body from absorbing the nutrients.”

Picking mushrooms off the top of her pizza, Cameron replies, “Chronic kidney disease fits with the weight gain, fatigue, high blood pressure, decreased urination, elevated albumin levels, abdominal pain and diarrhea. We just need to find out what set it off.”

Chase puts forward, “Sitting Disease. He’s sat behind the wheel of a car delivering pizzas for eight hours a day, five days a week. The sedentary lifestyle leads to reduced kidney function, which results in a mineral and electrolyte imbalance. This causes malabsorption of fiber and fluid retention, which leads to constipation and, as things progressed, diarrhea. Which means heart disease is probably next on the list of symptoms.”

House makes a negative game-buzzer sound. “Nnnnn! Wrong . A swing and a miss for Chase. Hot Dog Guy delivers pizzas on his bicycle, which means he gets more exercise than you do; so pretty much the opposite of everything you just said. Thanks for playing, though.”

In a rare show of solidarity, Foreman interjects, “He might be wrong about the reason, but he’s probably right about his lifestyle being behind most of his issues. And about the chances of heart involvement, if we don’t figure out the underlying cause.”

House looks back and forth between them. “You two need to make up your minds. Is it the kidney disease causing the malnutrition, or is the malnutrition causing the kidney disease?”

Foreman and Chase glance at one another. After a few seconds of wordless banter, Foreman turns to House and says, “We don’t know.”

“Excellent,” House rolls his eyes elaborately, “This must be what I’m paying you the big bucks for.”

“You _don’t_ pay us the big bucks,” Chase mutters, earning a glare from his boss.

They descend into a differential. Without a whiteboard handy, House starts writing notes on the lid of his pizza-box. Cameron and Foreman bicker over the possibility of renal artery stenosis. Chase stares down into his bowl of soup.

Taking notice, House snaps his fingers in Chase’s face, causing his head to jerk up. “Yes, I know, it does look disgusting. If you’re done wallowing in regret, maybe you could contribute to the conversation.”

“Where’s the menu?” Chase demands, looking around. Without waiting for anyone to answer, he spots a folded menu taped on top of House’s pizza-box. He peels it off and opens it, skimming down the listed items.

House watches him with a dubious expression. “You know, I don’t think Cuddy will be most pleased if she has to deliver another order of takeout just because you’re having buyer’s remorse.”

Shaking his head impatiently, Chase taps at the menu, “Minestrone soup and Greek salad are the only healthy things on the menu. We know he’s on a strict diet between eating contests, and if he works at a restaurant, that usually means free food for the staff,” Chase motions to his soup. “Look at this – potatoes, spinach, chard, tomatoes; basically the opposite of a renal diet. If he’s got CKD, his body can’t process potassium, phosphorus and salt, which the soup and salad are chock-full of.”

House looks at him curiously. “So you think his mineral deficiency is being caused by too many minerals?”

Chase nods. “The healthy diet is doing a number on his kidneys. So, if the kidney problem came first, the food he’s been eating has been aggravating it, at the very least.”

House protrudes his bottom lip, seeming to think about it. He shrugs.

“Alright. We’ll treat the patient with donuts, and see if he responds.”

*

House wakes up with a foot in his face. He wonders vaguely if this is something he’d paid for.

As his consciousness begins to materialize, he turns his head on the pillow and spies Foreman passed out in a chair. He’s fully dressed in his lab coat, mouth agape, snoring. The clock on the wall reads 5:30 and the birdsong outside suggests that it’s in the AM.

“Mmmph,” he hears from somewhere above him. The foot twitches.

He hears a stirring sound nearby, and lifts his head slightly to see the top of Cameron’s head on the edge of the mattress. She’s slumped face down on her forearms, which are resting on the bed in line with House’s pelvis. She makes a soft murmuring sound and smacks her lips; on her chin is a small rivulet of drool.

The foot moves, this time actually brushing House’s chin. House raises himself up on his elbows to discover that its owner is Chase, who’s at the other end of the bed, muttering in his sleep. 

House lies back down and Chase’s foot assaults him again. In turn, House nudges Chase’s cheek with his own socked foot, a bit aggressively.

“Chase,” he hisses, “Knock it off. Stop kicking.”

Chase turns his head from side to side and mumbles, “It’s not…no…that’s what I said…”

Foreman snorts loudly at the noise. Chase kicks again, landing a blow to House’s shoulder.

Chase murmurs, “Waffles...”

House puts the pillow over his head, and waits for morning to come.

An hour later, Cameron is the first of his fellows to stir. House, still wide awake, observes the look of horror dawning on her face as she realizes where they all are. She meets eyes with him, eyes wide and yet still half-asleep. 

“House. Oh God. Cuddy put me in charge and… I thought we just needed a rest.”

“Well, at least you three look well-rested,” House grumbles. “I’ve spent my morning being pummeled by Chase’s foot.”

Cameron looks sheepish. “Your leg was starting to hurt. Chase suggested you lay at the other end of the bed.”

“Yeah, I remember. Tops and tails, or something.”

Chase is next to wake, followed shortly after by Foreman. The two of them blink and rub their eyes. Chase keeps yawning. Foreman’s clothes are rumpled. Cameron’s hair, still half-braided, stands up in ridiculous tufts.

House points from Foreman, to Cameron, to Chase. “You snore, you drool, and you sleep-talk. No wonder you’re all single.”

“Do you think they’ll let us order coffee?” Foreman sounds hopeful.

House replies, “If they don’t, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

An hour later, after their breakfast trays and coffee cups have been delivered through a slot, Cuddy arrives with news.

“None of you tested positive for SARS,” she tells them. “You’re free to get back to work.”

“Darn, and we were just about to play Twister and spin-the-bottle,” House says as though with deep disappointment. “Guess we’ll just have to wait for the next quarantine order.”


	7. Chapter 7

“You look flushed,” Cameron says with a frown.

“Must be from last night’s orgy,” Chase replies. When this doesn’t earn him a smile, he adds, “Honestly, I feel fine.”

Chase has just been returned to his room, where they’ve congregated to continue working. Foreman is yet to arrive; he’s the only one of them who’d insisted on taking a shower first.

House goes in for a closer look at Chase, taking in his pink cheeks. He touches the back of his hand to Chase’s forehead. “Your fever’s up. No differential for you, Mister.”

Chase looks put out. “I feel okay. It can’t be that bad.”

“You’re overexerting yourself,” Cameron says guiltily. “We should have let you rest.”

Foreman arrives just as House and Cameron are preparing to go. “I stopped by the patient’s room. We’ve got a new symptom.”

“You can tell us upstairs. We’re going back to the office. Chase isn’t feeling well,” Cameron says with a hasty glance at Chase, who’s doing his best impression of a kicked puppy.

Chase mutters, “Actually –“

“Plus, he’s doing that annoying thing he does where he says he’s fine, when he obviously isn’t. Best to ignore the protestations,” advises House. “Come on, you two. Let’s get to work.”

*

“His feet blew up,” Foreman informs them during the trek from the patient ward to the office.

“They’re swollen? How bad?” Cameron asks, attempting to bundle her hair into a messy bun while walking.

“Almost double normal size, from the ankles down.”

“Which means it could be a problem with the heart and liver, as well as the kidneys,” House surmises, as they board the elevator, “Or maybe he’s just overworking them on his walks to and from the toilet.”

“Edema means the kidney damage is progressing. We can’t rule out involvement of the heart and liver, but we need to start treating the kidney issue first,” says Foreman.

Cameron adds, “Swollen feet could mean he’s entering the acute phase.”

House nods. “Test his GFR and find out what stage he’s at, and put him on ACE inhibitors for his blood pressure, and diuretics for the edema. Change the menu to a kidney-friendly diet. And run an abdominal CT so we can have a look inside his colon.”

The doors open and they get off the elevator, heading off in different directions. Foreman is tasked with the CT scan and Cameron with running the blood test and implementing the new medication and dietary regime. House goes to the office to think by himself for a while.

*

A few hours after they’d abandoned him, House enters Chase’s room to find him staring moodily off into space. It’s clear that he’s either feeling sorry for himself, or that he’s angry with House for banning him from differentials for the day. Either way, he won’t make eye contact when House enters the room. He still looks feverish, so maybe it’s a physical thing. House supposes he’ll have to bring him out of his sulk to find out.

“I’m avoiding Cuddy. Thought checking on you seemed like a good excuse,” House announces, scraping a chair back and taking a seat beside the bed. “Let’s make it believable. You tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll do doctorly things like get you medicine to make you feel better.”

Chase doesn’t respond, just lowers his gaze down to his hands in his lap, radiating tension. His jaw is clenched, and his brow is creased in a frown. House has known him long enough to be familiar with all his little tells, and what they add up to. Something is definitely wrong.

“What’s going on with you?” House frowns, feeling a prickle of apprehension.

“I need to talk to you,” Chase says quietly, still not looking up.

House pulls the chair closer to the bed. “Okay. So talk.”

Chase finally meets eyes with him. He takes a deep breath and says firmly, “This has to stop. You have to stop trying to diagnose me.”

House looks at him curiously, trying to gauge where this is coming from. He can find only one logical explanation.

“You’d only say that if you think you already know what’s wrong with you.”

“I do. It’s pneumonia.”

House sighs in minor frustration. “We’ve been over this already. Yes, you have pneumonia. No, that’s not your only problem. It’s a symptom, not the cause.”

“Just… shut up and listen, House. I haven’t been telling you everything. It just keeps escalating and…” Chase hesitates for a moment, looking at war with himself. At last, he says, “You were right. About the choking.”

House stares at him without expression, letting the words hang in the air between them. After a long beat of silence, Chase becomes uncomfortable enough to go on.

“I have this… _friend_ , I guess, back in Oz. Before I went to seminary school, I went through a phase of doing really stupid, reckless things. There was a lot going on at home, and I was acting out, I guess. We used to go to clubs together, and-” Chase stops himself, unsure how to phrase what he’s trying to say. He finally goes with, “It wasn’t a very healthy relationship.”

There’s another overlong pause, where House just stares and says nothing. Chase looks down at his hands, fidgeting with the tube of his cannula. He continues,

“Going back home this time, with both my parents gone and having to sell the house, I guess it stirred up some things. I was in sort of a dark place, and one night... I called my friend.”

House finally speaks. “You told us you hadn’t seen anyone apart from lawyers and your stepmom.”

“I lied,” Chase tells him matter-of-factly. “If I’d told you, you would have started asking questions, or maybe even picked up the phone. I didn’t want you to do that.”

“Fine,” House says impatiently, “Just tell me what happened.”

“Not much to tell,” Chase shrugs, “I didn’t stop it when I should have, and I passed out. I didn’t know I’d vomited until after you came to my room that day and pointed out that I could have aspirated, and I called my friend to ask.”

“Real nice friend you have there,” House says sourly.

“I’m not proud of it, obviously. I didn’t want to have to tell you any of this. But...” Chase hesitates, “There’s something else.”

House leans forward in his seat. “Go on.”

Chase shifts his gaze downward again. “I took some things. Amyl nitrate—”

“You were doing _poppers_?” House is truly alarmed now.

“—and cocaine.”

House pinches the bridge of his nose, as though in pain. “Jesus Christ, Chase!”

“I know, it’s bad, I never do things like that anymore; I haven’t touched any drugs since long before I started working here,” Chase protests, in an almost pleading tone, “It was just the one time, while I was away. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“You didn’t think it _mattered_?” House repeats in disgust, “How stupid are you?”

House is still trying to process everything he’d just been told when a thought occurs to him.

“The day I admitted you, Cameron checked you for mono and asked if you’d had physical contact with anyone. You told her you hadn’t. Have you been lying to us this entire time?”

Chase answers with some reluctance, “I didn’t lie, exactly – Foreman was being an ass and asked if I’d been sharing spit with anyone, which I hadn’t; there wasn’t any kissing involved.”

House finds this all the more disturbing. “So just a lie of omission, then. Or did you have your fingers crossed behind your back?”

Chase shakes his head. “I knew I didn’t have mono; I’ve had it before and I could tell that wasn’t what it was. I would have told the truth if the test had come back positive – but it didn’t.”

“I asked you point blank if you’d been choked,” House challenges.

“You asked if I _liked_ being choked,” Chase corrects him. “I don’t – not really. It’s not something I go out of my way for.”

“So you just let someone strangle you to, what - be polite?”

“It’s not like I hated it, but it wasn’t like I wanted it, either. I just… let it happen.”

“You sound severely depressed,” House says seriously.

“I’m not.”

House scrubs a hand over his face, still unable to fully process the bombshell Chase has dropped on him. “How often do you just ‘let’ things like that happen to you?”

“Not often. I don’t have a death wish if that’s what you think.”

“What else have you lied about? Hell, why am I even asking – you’ll probably just lie about that, too.”

“If I’d thought it was important, I would have told you.”

House stares at him in incredulity. “You didn’t think the drug-fuelled S&M sessions you’d been having might be worth mentioning to your doctors? Pull the other one, Chase. You’re too smart to be that stupid.”

“My friend isn’t sick – I called and asked. And any effects from the drugs should have cleared my system completely, days before you tested my blood. I honestly didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Bullshit. You were just trying to cover your ass, as usual.”

Chase‘s eyes flash with sudden anger. “You don’t get it, House. You may not care what people think, but I’m not like you. I knew you’d never look at me the same way if I told you the truth. Cameron, Foreman, all of you. It’s not the same for me as it is with other patients. If Cuddy found out I’d been using illegal drugs, she’d have me fired. This is my career, my _job_. It’s too important.”

“More important than your life?” House asks bluntly. “People still die from pneumonia, every day. Young, healthy people, too. You’d rather risk that than lose your job?”

Chase doesn’t respond, just sits there looking furious and like he might be fighting back tears. House lets out a heavy, frustrated sigh.

“You really think Cuddy doesn’t know how to look the other way? She’s practically refined it to an art form.”

“For _you_. I’m not you, House,” Chase snaps. “I don’t get a strike two, or three or ten. I get fired, and leave with no letter of recommendation or reference. So if you think I wasn’t acting in my own interests, put yourself in my place first.”

“Cuddy wouldn’t send you packing without my say-so. You’re my employee, and if anyone gets to fire you, it’s going to be me.”

He watches Chase’s slightly queasy expression as he swallows a lump in his throat. Despite how innocent he looks, House has to remind himself that he’s anything but. He sometimes forgets what a sneaky little bastard Chase can be when he’s in self-preservation mode. He’s not above treachery when it comes to protecting his job; the incident with Vogler had proven as much. It’s almost impressive that he’s been able to deceive them for this long without raising House’s suspicions.

House finds that he’s not actually angry at Chase for lying. He’s angry at him for putting himself in harm’s way, for no apparent reason other than to self-destruct.

House says slowly, “You just told me that you allowed yourself to be choked until you passed out and nearly drowned on your own vomit, after taking a bad combination of drugs, and that’s why you now have pneumonia. Anything else you want to get off your chest before I refer you to the psych ward?”

“I’m sorry,” Chase says softly.

“You should be,” House replies, unmoved. “I should fire your ass for screwing up a case. This is not okay.”

Chase hedges slightly before asking, “Are you going to tell Cuddy?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” House answers honestly.

Chase seems to grimly accept his fate. After a long pause, he says, “So that’s it, I guess. At least you have your diagnosis.”

House dismisses him with a snort. “No, I don’t. This doesn’t change anything.”

“How can you say that?” Chase asks in disbelief. “Aspiration of gastric fluid in the lungs causes an infection that turns into chemical pneumonia. Amyl nitrate and cocaine use brings on the low white count and suppresses the immune system. What else do you want?”

“You don’t have chemical pneumonia,” House says scornfully, “I’ve seen your x-rays and if you did, I would have seen infiltrates in the right lower lobe and diagnosed it – you know that. You also know that it usually presents within a few hours of the aspiration event, and that if you hadn’t had your lungs suctioned by now, you’d either be dead or frothing blood.”

Chase refutes, “It’s possible a microaspiration could have gotten through and caused an infection with slower onset.”

“Possible, but extremely unlikely, given your other symptoms. And as for the drugs, amyl nitrate clears the system within four days. There’s no way it’s still affecting your white count, unless you’ve found a way to go space-surfing from your hospital bed. If cocaine was the issue, it would cause neutropenia, which we’d have seen on your blood tests - you know that, too. “

“So, you think it’s just a coincidence that I took drugs that suppress the immune system, days before my white count tanked?” Chase fires back at him.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think trashing your already-lousy immune system left you more susceptible to catching whatever infection you have,” says House. He studies Chase’s defiant expression. “I’m not sure why, but you’re clutching at straws to blame yourself for this. Must be all that Catholic guilt weighing on your conscience.” 

Chase looks like he’s been caught out, but doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them that, strangely enough, isn’t uncomfortable. House actually feels relieved that things have started to fall into place.

“Your temperature is back up to 102,” he observes, reading off the monitor, “I’m going to put this little confession down to your addled brain bringing on delusions. Tomorrow you can tell me that you didn’t know what you were saying, and that none of it was true.”

Chase just looks at him despondently. House gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder.

“Get some rest. I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

*

Chase tosses in bed, unable to find a comfortable position. He wants nothing more than to take a nap and switch his mind off, but can’t seem to stay still for long enough to even rest much. He’s feeling worse than he has in days. Telling House the truth seems to have taken a lot out of him.

The truth was that he’d been dreading his trip to Australia the way an unlucky deck-hand dreads being forced to walk the plank into crocodile-infested waters. He’d known that it would drudge up memories he’d just as soon leave buried and that selling the house he’d grown up in would affect him, even if it would be a relief in the end. Seeing Jeanette hadn’t been any fun, either – even after all these years, she’d still managed to make him feel like an unwelcome stranger in his own house.

For the first few nights of his visit he’d slept in his childhood bedroom, which looked exactly the same as he’d left it before going off to seminary and then med school. Jeanette had wanted to have it converted into a sewing room at some point but, in a rare show of loyalty, his father had put his foot down and left it as it had been. Staying there had seemed to play on his mind, and he’d had nightmares and vivid dreams every night about both of his parents (especially his mother) until he’d gone to sleep in one of the guest rooms for the rest of the trip.

Then there was the thing with Jason. That had come one night when Chase’s mood had gone particularly black after finding some of his mother’s gin bottles stashed at the back of a closet, where she must have hidden them. Almost on autopilot, he’d picked up the phone without really expecting Jason to answer or to be interested in meeting him. But he had, and look how that had turned out.

He’d been telling House the truth when he’d said that he really hadn’t thought that his sexual misadventures and idiotic drug-taking had anything to do with his illness, at least at first. It had only been one night, and he hadn’t even taken much. The drugs were just a big ‘fuck you’ to people who were already too dead to notice, and he’d found some bitter satisfaction in the fact that there was nobody left who cared enough to stop him. After he’d passed out with Jason’s hand around his throat, he’d woken to find himself propped on a pillow with his t-shirt back on, cleaned up to some extent and mostly sober. Jason had elected not to mention that he’d vomited on himself when he’d been unconscious, probably not wanting to freak him out.

House had been right that Chase had never quite managed to convince himself that his diagnoses of chemical pneumonia and drug-related immune suppression was really the culprit; there were too many holes in the theory for him to truly believe it. But he’d forced himself to consider it as at least a possibility, in order to motivate him to bring the evidence to House. House had also been right about him blaming himself; even if his actions hadn’t led directly to his current condition, Chase is still suspicious and Catholic enough to believe that he’s being punished for his sins.

Telling House had been as humiliating and painful as he’d imagined it would be. He hadn’t gotten the sense that House was going to fire him, or fire him by proxy by telling Cuddy, but he could if he wanted to, and Chase wouldn’t blame him if he did. He hopes that House will take pity on him, or at least won’t care enough about what he does to himself to be angry, as long as it hasn’t affected his diagnosis.

He’s been catching House stealing odd glances at him, with some unidentifiable emotion behind his eyes that Chase hasn’t been able to decipher. It’s been making him paranoid, as though House was looking inside his head, seeing the lies accumulate there like a clot.

He’s caught between feelings of worry and relief, now that the conversation is over. It had needed to happen; between his increasing guilt and House’s inscrutable looks, he’d been unable to keep up the front any longer. He’d known that telling House the truth would cost him – it might even lose him his job. But at least he’s absolved himself now and feels less like a fraud.

The worst part had been House’s disappointment in him, just after he felt like they’d finally developed some sort of rapport. The only upside of being so ill has been the funny little interactions he’s started sharing with his boss, who for the previous four years had seemed largely indifferent to him. House’s visit to his apartment had surprised him and had broken down some invisible wall between his home life and his work life, where House had only ever existed before.

Being in the hospital had meant late-night visits that were more like social calls, with House talking his ear off until Chase had started falling asleep to the sound of him prattling on. And now House keeps _touching_ him: checking his pulse, feeling his forehead, giving him random little pats on the shoulder. Even if it was mostly clinical, Chase has been extremely aware that the hands on him belonged to Gregory House. He knows exactly how pathetic he is for relishing in these small moments of physical contact and finding comfort in them – on a scale of one to ten, he’s probably a twelve. He’s kept it under wraps, of course; he’s sure that House wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole if he knew that Chase actually enjoyed it.

In an attempt to cast House from his thoughts, Chase shifts his focus to the physical. He has a splitting headache and, over the past hour or so, he’s started to feel uncomfortably hot, like he’d been sitting in the sun during a ruthless Australian heatwave. Drinking water and trying to sleep hadn’t helped, so he’d opened the window a crack to let the cold February air in. Then he’d rolled the blanket to the end of the bed, so that only a sheet was covering him and, when that wasn’t enough, he’d thrown dignity to the wind and kicked that off too, left feeling exposed in his hospital gown.

His mounting body temperature is both concerning and extremely frustrating; it contradicts his seeming recovery and supports House’s claims that he has worse things to worry about than plain old pneumonia. It’s disconcerting to be forced to acknowledge that, as always, House is probably right.

In the dim hope that his temperature will begin to plateau, he waits until the discomfort is more than he can stand before finally relenting and hitting the call button. A nurse appears moments later – it’s Trisha, one of the nice girls he sometimes sits with in the cafeteria, whenever their group invites him over.

“Doctor Chase. Is everything alright?” she asks, looking harried, pulling her dirty-blonde hair back into a ponytail. She stops to peer at the monitor and looks surprised. “Your temperature’s gone up.”

“Hi Trisha - yeah, that’s why I called. I was wondering if you could bring me some acetaminophen to get it down a little. It’s been going up for the past few hours, and it’s starting to get really uncomfortable.”

“Sure, of course. Should I let Doctor House know?”

Chase has been debating this himself. He’s already angered his boss once today, and it would be foolish to rankle House further by keeping him out of the loop. On the other hand, he isn’t sure he has it in him to face any more of House’s disappointment and disgust at the moment. He weighs his options.

“Don’t go out of your way, but tell him if you see him,” he decides. Trisha nods and leaves the room.

A few minutes later, she returns with a cup of water and two pills in a small wax-paper cup. He thanks her, and knocks them back in one slug.

“Those should help,” she says, eyeing him critically, “But if they don’t, I’m paging Doctor House. Your temp is pushing 104.”

Chase looks up at the monitor in slight surprise. The last time he’d checked hadn’t felt like that long ago, and it had been hovering around 103. It’s risen significantly since this morning, and it seems to be happening fast now.

“Page him if it goes any higher,” he says in agreement, “Hopefully the pills will start to work before there’s anything to worry about.”

*

“His GFR is below 50. His kidney function is stage 3,” Cameron reports, brow etched with concern.

“What were the results of the CT scan?” asks House. His eyes are drifting back and forth on the whiteboard, between Hot Dog Guy’s symptoms and Chase’s.

“There’s still a large mass…” Cameron trails off as House makes a note on Chase’s side of the board. At the silence, House turns around to look at her with impatience.

“Sorry, it’s just… you seem distracted.”

“I’m trying to remember if I Tivoed this week’s _Monster Jam_ ,” House replies curtly. “The patient’s kidney failure is progressing, despite treatment. CT scan revealed a mass. Go on.”

Cameron carries on, “There’s still a large, solid mass in his large intestine. Everything that’s been coming out is whittling away at it, but it’s still there.”

“He’s still constipated,” House reiterates, “And now he’s in renal failure. What are the connections?”

“Autosumnal polycystic kidney disease presents between the ages of 30 and 40, and causes problems with the colon as well as the kidneys,” says Foreman.

“We should look at Chrohn’s again,” Cameron reckons, “It doesn’t diagnose easily. The malabsorption, malnutrition and kidney failure fit.”

“We’re ignoring the obvious. The patient regularly abuses his body,” House says, pacing the floor. “The human stomach is approximately the size of a Nerf football. This idiot is filling his to the size of the football _field_.

“A normal stomach stretches about 15% at most. These professional eating morons stretch theirs to two or three times that size. They train their stomachs to expand, changing their physiology to accept an almost unlimited volume of food. Apparently, they don’t care what permanent damage they’re doing in the meantime. 

“Just a few of the negative side effects of regularly overstuffing yourself include delayed stomach emptying, aspiration pneumonia, stomach perforation, Boerhaave syndrome, and obesity. ... Long term effects of delayed stomach emptying include chronic indigestion, nausea and vomiting.

“We need to do a gastroscopy to look inside his stomach. Check for ulcers and perforations; we need to make sure his stomach contents aren’t leaking into places they shouldn’t. Then I want a sigmoidoscopy on his colon.”

At these instructions, Cameron and Foreman stand to gather up their things before heading off to perform their errands. Cameron throws a tentative glance at House.

“I’m a little worried about Chase. Do you think he’s okay?”

Foreman fields the question when House doesn’t respond. “He’s probably just overtired, and this is his body’s way of telling him to take a break. We all stayed up pretty late.”

“We should check on him after we do the procedure,” she decides. 

They’re interrupted by the sound of House’s pager going off. House looks down at the message and, without a word, hobbles briskly out the door. Cameron and Foreman share a glance and follow him.

“What’s going on?” Cameron asks, nearly jogging to keep up.

“Chase’s fever spiked. They’re moving him to the ICU,” House punches the elevator button, jamming at it impatiently.

“How high is his temperature?” asks Foreman.

“Too high to be from the pneumonia,” House responds. The doors open, and he and his fellows step inside. “Something else is going on.”

“He was recovering. What happened?” Cameron asks, unable to mask her shock. The elevator begins its descent to the second floor.

“I have no idea,” says House.


	8. Chapter 8

They arrive in Chase's room to find him shivering and barely conscious, flanked by nurses pressing him down with wet sponges.

“Why is he still here?” demands House.

“His transfer’s been delayed. We’re waiting for a bed to open up,” explains a nurse – she’s one of the little idiots that follow Chase around, swooning. Grumbling, House swats her away and moves in closer to examine his patient. After a cursory glance at sweaty skin and brightly flushed cheeks, he looks up at the monitor.

“Temp is 104.9,” he reads off, "How long has he been like this?"

“Not long,” the nurse replies, “He went up two degrees in the past hour.” 

“Have you given him anything that’s not on the chart? Aspirin, cough drops, herbal tea – anything at all?”

“Acetaminophen. 2000 milligrams.” 

House peels back one of Chase's eyelids to shine a penlight at his pupil.   
  
"Chase," House barks, "Chase. Sit up."  
  
When Chase fails to comply, House hauls him into a sitting position, wrestling him out of his hospital gown. Chase slumps against his shoulder where House secures him, taking a seat on the mattress.  
  
Cameron and Foreman avert their eyes briefly at the conspicuous sight of their colleague stripped to his underwear and being held by their boss.

House rolls his eyes monumentally.

"Oh, give me a break! I just won fifty bucks from a pool at the nurse's station for betting on boxer-briefs. If you want in on the action, try snapping a few photos and putting together a calendar. Now, start acting like doctors and _do your damn jobs_!"  
  
"Sorry," Cameron murmurs. She retrieves a bag of fluids and begins attaching it to the IV pole.  
  
"Have you done anything else to reduce the fever?" Foreman questions one of the nurses.  
  
“Just cooling treatments. Obviously, he’s not responding.”

"Useless!” House snarls, visibly angry, “Get me 2.5 milligrams of Dantrolene and 50 milligrams of Demerol. And hurry the hell up," To the other nurse he says, "You, bring me cooling blankets and ice packs. Now!”  
  
The nurses scurry off, leaving House and his team to themselves.

“Somebody find me a thermometer,” House requests, “He’s squirming around too much for monitor readings to be accurate.”

Cameron finds one in a drawer and holds it out to House, who jerks his chin at Chase, still in his arms, “Stick it in his mouth. My hands are full, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Cameron slides the small device under Chase’s tongue and holds it there until it beeps. House snatches it to read the number on the LCD display: 105.1.

At the slight movement, a violent shiver cuts through Chase, making his teeth chatter. With surprising gentleness, House supports the back of his head and holds him tighter against his chest. Cameron and Foreman throw glances at one another across the bed.  
  
"Anything you'd like to say?" drolls House.

"He's shivering," Foreman observes, a bit loudly. "It's going to keep driving his temperature up. We should inject him with morphine."  
  
House gives Foreman a spectacular 'duh' look over the top of Chase's sweat-soaked hair.  
  
"In case you were wondering why I'm holding him so tenderly in my arms, it's because I'm trying to cop a feel, not to keep him as still as possible until we can sedate him,” House blows at a strand of blond hair that’s sticking to his cheek, “We’re waiting on the Demerol; morphine could interact badly with the other drugs in his system. Any other brilliant observations?”

“No,” Foreman says, but adds reluctantly, "House, we can’t wait for the nurses. His temperature is 105 degrees and rising. We need to do something."

He’s right, but here in the ward they don’t have a lot of resources at their disposal. House can only think of one. “Come on, help me get him up.”

Foreman’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You want to get him out of bed?”

“Into the shower,” House flaps a hand at them, “Hurry up, I can’t carry him. Cripple, remember?”

Cameron and Foreman look at each other, then at House’s impatient scowl. They snap into action.

Carrying most of Chase’s weight, Foreman dumps him into the shower cubicle in the room’s small bathroom and props him against the tile wall. House hobbles over and turns the knob as far to ‘C’ as it will go, blasting him with a jet of cold water.

Chase reacts with a sharp gasp and a jolt, eyes flying open and then squeezing shut as water runs into them. Within seconds, his hair is pelted to his forehead. He whines unhappily, trying to slump out of the path of the spray. He moves to crawl out, but slips and whacks the back of his head against the wall.

“Shit!” House is in the cubicle before he has a chance to think about it. He cups a hand around the back of Chase’s head and checks to make sure there isn’t any blood. There isn’t, just a bump already forming that’s probably going to be sore in the morning, but shouldn’t do any harm. Moaning, Chase begins to shiver again, harder than before.

With a defeated sigh, House takes a seat on the wet tile floor. His clothes are already sodden – he might as well make the most of it. He holds Chase in an upright position, absorbing the crazy heat that’s coming off him. Chase squirms in his arms as cold water rains down on them, soaking them both to the skin. House’s leg begins to cramp from the uncomfortable position, and the fact that Chase is practically sitting in his lap. It takes Cameron and Foreman enormous effort not to stare.

“Well, don’t say I never did anything for the three of you!” House snaps. "Don’t worry, you two – you’ll get your turns later. I’ve been meaning to get a t-shirt advertising free hugs. Now, go get me the damn ice packs!"

  
*

The morning sun shines into Wilson’s office. 

Wilson has only been at work for half an hour when House enters and flops down heavily on the couch. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, only more rumpled and possibly wet; he looks like he’s been through a war.

“Have you been here all night?” Wilson observes his friend’s haggard appearance with concern. At House’s answering nod he asks, “Doing what?”

“Frying eggs off Chase. His temperature hit 106.”

“Christ – is he alright?” Wilson rises from his desk to take the armchair across from House.

“He’s under sedation in the ICU. Fever’s down below boiling, but not by much,” House looks off, his tired blue eyes clouded, “He’s sicker than I thought.”

“Did Cameron and Foreman stay, too?”

“I sent them home a few hours ago. They’re useless to me if they’re falling asleep on the job.”

House scrubs a hand over his craggy face and slouches forward, resting his head in his hands. He’s not even trying to hide how worried he is; Wilson can do a one-handed count of the number of times he’s seen House in a similar state.

Wilson hesitantly touches House’s shoulder. “This isn’t your fault.”

House shrugs him off violently, leveling him with a fierce stare. “Then whose fault is it? It’s my _job_ to find out what’s wrong with him and fix it!”

“You will,” Wilson assures him.

“Maybe too late,” House says bitterly. “He could have brain damage. We won’t know until he wakes up.”

Wilson doesn’t say anything for a while. They sit in silence until he feels that House is ready for him to talk.

“You should go home and sleep, at least for a few hours,” He says in a gently neutral tone. “You’re no good to anyone if you’re too exhausted to think straight.” 

House doesn’t move, just stares blankly ahead. Wilson sighs and retrieves a rolled-up fleece from the shelf and places it on the sofa next to House. 

“Take my office. Just get some sleep. If you need me, I’ll be right next door.”

Wilson takes his paperwork to House’s office, switching the light off behind him. When he checks back an hour later, House is snoring into a throw pillow, stomach-down with his good leg hanging off the side of the couch.

When he pokes his head in two hours after that, the room is empty. House is gone.

*

House sits in an uncomfortable chair beside Chase’s bed in intensive care, eyes fixed on a stray blond lock that’s fallen across his forehead. _Go figure_ , he thinks to himself; even when Chase is unconscious, his stupid hair is still in his face. House’s fingers itch to tuck it behind his ear.

Gregory House’s curiosity and dispassion for his patients has gotten him far in his career. Sure, he gets called a heartless bastard on the regular by angry family members and fellow staff for finding his patients’ dire symptoms interesting, but he can’t help it. It’s served him well so far, and therefore served the patients.

Last night had proved to be a different story. House had failed to find anything interesting about the moment Chase’s eyes rolled back and he’d started seizing, having to be held in the recovery position for House to slam him with a needle full of Demerol. Nor had he found it fascinating when Chase had spent the next few hours encased in ice packs, with his temperature falling and soaring repeatedly. He definitely hadn’t thought it was neat when it had taken nearly two hours before they’d finally transferred him from the ward to the intensive care unit, a process that proved so infuriating that House would be railing out Cuddy later for having an insufficient number of ICU beds.

His rattled nerves have left him unable to rest, or to be anywhere else but with Chase until he knows what they’re dealing with. Now, Chase’s stubborn refusal to wake up is getting on his last nerve. He’s increasingly tempted to apply noxious stimulus, by poking him hard in the sternum or behind the jaw, or digging into his nail-beds when the nurses aren’t looking, to hurry things along.

There are things he needs to know that only Chase can tell him. He needs to know the level of damage, if any, that may have occurred during Chase’s ordeal. He needs to know if Chase remembers anything useful that may have preceded it. What he mainly needs to know, and which Chase has no answer for is,

_What the hell is wrong with you?_

Still running on two hours’ sleep, House’s eyes are drooping shut when Chase’s begin to open. House snaps awake as Chase’s eyelashes flutter and his sea-green eyes land on House’s blue ones.

In a sleep-rough voice, he says, “Hi, House.”

House allows himself a small smile. “Hey, Goldilocks. Are you feeling too hot, too cold, or just right?”

“Hot,” Chase swallows to clear his throat. He looks at his surroundings and crinkles his nose in confusion. “Am I in the ICU?”

“You were transferred here early this morning. Your fever spiked. You had a rough night.”

“How bad?”

“Very.”

“Oh,” Chase coughs. House finds the mostly-melted cup of ice chips beside the bed and pushes it at him.

He waits for the coughing to subside before asking, “So. How do you feel now?” 

Chase rolls an ice chip around in his mouth and decides, “Like crap.”

“I’ll bet. You look like it, too.”

House retrieves a penlight from his pocket and shines it at Chase’s pupils. He sits back.

“Look at me,” he commands. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“Now?”

“Four,” Chase frowns, “Are you testing me for brain damage?”

“Yes. Look forward,” House shines the penlight at each eye and then moves it slowly back and forth. “Follow the light with your eyes. Now down, then up - Good.”

“What happened?”

“Your body started cooking its internal organs. We’re not sure why yet. Touch the tip of your nose.”

“I don’t remember…”

“Anything? From before, or…?”

“I was talking to one of the nurses. Then, nothing.”

“Okay. Now touch my fingertip with yours. Now back and forth, back and forth…”

It takes House approximately five minutes to perform a neurological exam. Satisfied with the result, he sits back in the chair and observes his patient.

Chase may be out of danger, but he’s still very sick. His eyes are glassy and fever-spots burn bright on his cheeks. He looks washed-out, pain-stricken and exhausted. Something is lurking inside him that House can’t put a finger on; something that isn’t done with him yet. For the first time, House is afraid that it might actually be killing him.

He nudges the cup of ice chips in Chase’s hand. Chase obediently pops another in his mouth. He yawns and then winces, screwing his eyes shut, “Christ. My head is killing me.”

“That would be the sedatives wearing off, and the knock on the head you gave yourself earlier,” House informs him, “It must be pretty bad if it’s driving you to blasphemy. I’ll tell the nurses to give you something for the headache and hang you a new bag of fluids. Sleep it off, altar boy.”

Chase doesn’t attempt to put up a fight. He goes slack against the pillows, taking slow breaths of oxygen through his cannula. 

House waits a few minutes to get up; Chase isn’t asleep, but he’s close. House is standing to leave when Chase says,

“House?”

House lowers himself back onto the chair.

With a wan look, Chase asks hesitantly, “Have you made a decision yet about whether I get to keep my job?”

House snorts, “Oooh, playing the ‘I-nearly-died’ card already. Nice. You really know how to rack up the sympathy points.”

“Figured if I made you feel sorry for me, I might get a reprieve,” Chase manages a weak smile.

“You certainly went above and beyond,” House replies crisply.

Chase gives him a plaintive look. House folds his arms, adopting a serious tone.

“What would you do if you had an employee who lied repeatedly to your face, and put a patient’s life in danger? What’s the logical way to handle that?”

Chase bows his head, visibly ashamed. He looks so pathetic that House decides to put him out of his misery.

“You’re not fired, idiot,” he sighs, “I am pissed at you, though. As soon as you’re back on your feet, your nametag is going to say ‘Doctor House’ at the clinic for a month.”

Chase blinks in surprise, “Clinic duty? That’s it?”

House nods, “Looks like you’re getting your strike two, after all. Just don’t assume that you’re getting a strike three.”

“Thank you,” Chase exhales in a rush. He looks unguardedly happy, like a weight has been lifted. He also looks like he’s fighting to stay awake.

House pats his leg. “Okay, you can relax now. Time to get some sleep.”

He turns to go. He’s halfway out the door when he hears,

“House?”

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“You look like crap, too.”

House turns back around, keeping his grin to himself.

“You’re seeing things,” he declares as he limps off, “Or maybe you really do have brain damage.”

*

Cameron and Foreman wander into the office in the early afternoon to find House spinning the tennis ball on his desk, looking disheveled but sharp-eyed.

“Did you stay here all night?” asks Foreman, noting his unchanged clothes.

“Work to do,” House tosses the ball and deftly catches it. “You lazybones overestimate the value of sleep. You also underestimate the power of coffee and Adderall.”

House lobs the ball, bouncing it off the side of the whiteboard. On it, he’s written two more symptoms:

_-Hyperpyrexia_

_-Febrile Seizure_

“Now that we’re all here, let’s discuss: what causes high-grade fever?”

“Maybe it’s another infection,” Cameron suggests, “That would be keeping in trend with his symptoms. It could be a simple UTI from lying in bed that spread to the kidneys.”

Foreman is staring hard at the board, a deep furrow etched in his brow.

“It’s DTs,” he declares suddenly, “Explains the high fever, delirium, and seizure. He’s been here for nearly a week, which puts him right on schedule for peak alcohol withdrawal. It also explains his low white count. Low WBC can sometimes be attributed to alcohol-induced suppression of the bone marrow.”

“Not this again,” Cameron groans in frustration, “We crossed alcoholism off the list of underlying conditions.”

“Not really; we just hadn’t found any evidence. That was before his temperature suddenly went through the roof.”

"He's not an alcoholic," Cameron persists, "We see him every day. We'd be able to tell."  
  
"Why, because alcoholics are usually so forthcoming about their habit?" Foreman snorts.  
  
"There would be symptoms: tiredness, bloodshot eyes, trouble concentrating. We've been out with him plenty of times and I’ve never even seen him get tipsy."  
  
"That just means that he's high-functioning, and he's built up a tolerance."

“We found no evidence of an alcohol problem at his apartment. Why do you keep going back to this?”

“His mother drank herself to death. It runs in families.”

“There are likelier causes,” Cameron says, unyielding, “It could be an allergic reaction to the antibiotics we gave him for the ear infection. Cefotaxime is in the same drug family as penicillin. Penicillin allergies can develop at any stage in life; if he was only mildly allergic, it would have allowed the drug to accumulate in his system, eventually putting him over the edge and causing his temperature to skyrocket.”

House finally weighs in, "Or it could be from DTs. Do a liver function test - find out if he takes after Mommy.” To Cameron he says, “Run a urinalysis looking for a UTI and kidney infection, and take him off the cefotaxime and switch him over to clindamycin.”

As they’re departing, House instructs both of them,

“Then perform a head MRI. I want to see inside his brain.”

*

“Chase. Wake up.”

Foreman is shaking his shoulder; Chase groggily comes to. He feels stiff and sore all over, and his head is throbbing.

“We need to run some tests,” Foreman explains without preamble. “Cameron will be here soon.”

Disoriented and thirsty, Chase looks around to see if there are any more ice chips or even the melted water, but the cup has been cleared away.

“Everything okay?” Foreman asks, observing his put-out look.

“Just thirsty,” he admits, feeling awkward. Foreman disappears and returns a moment later with water in a clear plastic cup.

Chase thanks him and sips at it carefully. “What tests is he having you run?” 

“Cameron’s going to test for a kidney infection and I’m going to test your hepatic function. After that, we’re going to take you for a head MRI.”

Chase processes the battery of tests, linking them to probable diagnoses; his eyes widen suddenly.

In a hurt voice, he says, “You think I have DTs?”

Foreman replies with a shrug.

“I’m not a heavy drinker. I’ve seen up close the kind of damage that alcohol can do.”

“I want to believe you. But as House says, people lie. It’s nothing personal, just medicine.”

“Except it _is_ personal,” Chase points out. “You think I’m entitled, that I don’t value my position here. This would be your proof.”

“How I feel about you as a colleague has nothing to do with my treatment of you as a patient,” Foreman replies coolly. “It’s called being professional.”

There’s a thick silence between them as Foreman prepares a syringe to draw blood.

“Most people who drink won’t admit they’re alcoholics because they’ve fooled themselves into believing that their intake is normal,” Foreman says in a calm, casual tone as he inserts the needle. Chase responds with more resentful silence.

Cameron arrives, her welcome presence easing some of the tension. “Almost finished?”

“I’m done. He’s all yours.” Foreman bags the sample and strides briskly out the door.

Staring after Foreman’s departing figure, Chase mumbles, “I don’t know what I ever did to make him hate me so much.”

Cameron gives him a soft smile, like she knows something he doesn’t.

“He doesn’t hate you. You… frustrate him. He thinks you have it easy,” she shrugs, “He’s wrong.”

“I just don’t understand why everything has to be a competition, or why he thinks he needs to make me look bad, in order to make himself look good.”

“Middle-child syndrome,” Cameron muses, “He thinks he’s Jan from the Brady Bunch and you’re Marcia.”

“He’s nearly four years older than I am.”

“You’re still House’s firstborn. You were with him a year before either of us.”

Not sure what advantages this supposedly gives him, Chase decides to drop it.

“It doesn’t feel like a kidney problem,” he comments, watching in chagrin as Cameron unearths a urine sample cup.

“Oh come on,” she laughs, “This isn’t the first time this week I’ve asked you to pee in a cup.”

“It’s not that; well, it sort of is, but also, I don’t have any pain or discomfort there.”

“Let’s run it anyway, and let it come back negative. It’ll just be one more thing we can rule out.”

*

“Don’t fidget,” Foreman says irritably through the comm from the control room.

Disobediently, Chase squirms again, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position inside the MRI scanner. The narrow tube is trapping in the heat that’s coming off him, and the air feels close and heavy. It’s causing him to feel claustrophobic and slightly nauseous.

He licks his upper-lip, tasting sweat that’s gathered there. “Can you turn it on now?” He just wants it to start, so it can be over.

“We’re about to. I know it’s uncomfortable, but just try to be really still, okay?” Cameron says, in the gentle, encouraging tone she uses on frightened child patients.

“Okay.”

“We’re going to turn it on now. Are you ready?” Foreman asks.

“Ready,” he says; as ready as he’ll ever be.

He hears the machine whir on. He’s never experienced an MRI from this side of the scanner before. He feels a pang of empathy for his patients, and a touch of guilt for becoming annoyed when they complained. There’s a banging sound like someone is pounding on the body of the scanner, trying to get in.

 _The cooling of the magnets_ , he reminds himself.

He closes his eyes and focuses on relaxing his body as much as possible. He’s already finding it difficult.

Tensing at the loud whooshing sound that emits from the machine over and over, he tells himself that it’s mind over matter; he just needs to forget where he is, cast his thoughts somewhere else. He’s uncomfortable, but it will be over soon enough. If the child patients can do it, so can he.

He tries to picture something peaceful and selects Fairhaven Beach, where he’d spent most of his summers swimming and learning to surf. 

He’d done a rotation on hypnosis back in Melbourne, and had turned out to be rather good at it. He’d also learned it was possible to put oneself in a hypnotized state.

He inhales and exhales deeply, over and over, letting himself float.

 _Visualize the beach_ , he tells himself. _The sand. The air. The way it looked. The way it smelled. The people on it._

He smells the sea and hears the sound of gentle waves and crying seagulls. Behind a line of white sand is a vividly blue ocean.

The next image that swims up in his head is of his mother, sitting in the sand. She’s barefoot and wearing a long white sundress, stretched out on top of a large blue beach towel. She’s turning to look at him, blond hair whipping around her face.

He’s dripping wet, with a coating of white sand sticking to his feet. He’s trying to crawl into her lap fresh out of the water, knowing that she hates it when he does this.

“Don’t! You’re wet,” she squeals, pushing him away. He drops down next to her on the towel, almost knocking her drink over.

“Careful,” she says, moving it to her other side. He catches a whiff of lime and juniper.

Looking him over, she wrinkles her nose in discontent. “Your cheeks are red. You’re getting sunburned.”

“Mum, am I dead? I think I must be. No… I’m hallucinating.”

Hesitantly, she touches the back of her hand to his cheek, then his forehead. Her annoyed look turns into a worried frown.

“You’re really warm, babe. I think you have a fever.”

“I know, Mum. I’m in hospital. I think I’m really ill.”

“We should go home,” she sighs, rising to her feet. In her beach bag, she finds a dry towel and roughly towels off his hair before wrapping it around him. “You must be getting sick. Does your throat hurt?”

“No. Everything else does.”

While she collapses the umbrella, he looks around to see if his father is anywhere nearby. He’s not; he rarely is. 

Without the shade, the sun is oppressively hot. He’s beginning to feel a bit faint.

“Do I have a hereditary condition?” he wonders, watching her. She’s bent over the bag, her sunlit golden hair forming a curtain over her face. “Is that why you’re here? No, it’s obviously an infection. I’m not thinking straight.”

Her sharp voice cuts through the thought. “Bobby! Are you listening to me? I said hold the umbrella.”

He holds the umbrella upright while she finishes the last of her drink. She puts the empty cup inside the shell-patterned bag and hoists it over her shoulder.

“Come on. Put your sandals on. I don’t want sand all over the car.” 

*

Inside the control room, Cameron pushes her glasses up, narrowing her eyes at the screen.

“There’s swelling in the cerebral cortex.” 

Foreman nods. He switches to the next scan.

“Could be from trauma,” he proposes, to fill the silence. “He gave himself a pretty good whack on the head in the shower. Maybe it caused a small bleed that was exacerbated during the seizure.”

“No signs of hemorrhaging. Look,” Cameron scrutinizes the image and points at one bright spot, then another.

“High signal lesions in both hemispheres,” Foreman murmurs. 

Through the sound-monitor, they can hear Chase breathing heavily and repeatedly swallowing. He sounds distressed.

“Are you okay in there?” Cameron asks through the comm.

“I’m alright, it’s just… it’s hot,” he says weakly. “How much longer, do you reckon?”

“Not too long,” she reassures him. “We’re about halfway through. Just hang in there.”

Another fifteen minutes go by, largely in silence apart from comments here and there as the scans flash along. Cameron is studying a curious bright spot when Foreman says,

“Hey. Look at this.”

Cameron looks at the monitor that displays neural activity, where Foreman is pointing. She studies the wave patterns.

“His brain activity is abnormal. What do you think it could-?”

She stops mid-sentence to listen. Chase is mumbling something that she can’t make out.

She hits the comm. “Sorry, Chase. What did you say?”

There’s no reply, just muffled noises.

“Chase?”

Still no response. 

“We should get him out,” she decides, acting on instinct. Before Foreman can object, she’s out of her seat and making her way quickly to the system room.

Reaching the machine, she ejects the table from the scanner and pries away the head coil. Chase is lying still and his eyes are closed. 

“Did he fall asleep?” Foreman asks, coming up behind her.

He doesn’t look asleep, exactly. When she touches his shoulder, he flinches away and squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“Not now, Mum… ” he mutters, words slurring around the edges. His skin is soaked with sweat.

Cameron shoots a look across the table at Foreman, her uneasy expression matching his. Laying a hand on Chase’s forehead, her eyes widen.

“He’s burning up again. We need to get him back to the ICU, now!”


	9. Chapter 9

He’s lying in bed, staring up at the model airplane that hangs from the ceiling. It’s swaying slightly in the breeze from the fan in the window.

His mother is talking on the phone with anger in her voice.

“How should I know? _I’m_ not a doctor. I gave him some, an hour ago. It’s not helping.”

She’s pacing the hall outside his bedroom. He can hear ice cubes rattling in the glass she’s holding.

“I don’t care about your bloody patient! Your son is sick. I need you here.”

His father’s heavily accented voice is loud enough to hear through the phone. The words aren’t clear, but his tone is irate.

“Don’t you dare hang up. I swear to God, Rowan –”

He hears a clatter that he knows to be the phone slamming against the receiver. A moment later, his door opens a crack and he sees her silhouette against the hall light.

“Mum?”

“Go back to sleep!” she snaps. He closes his eyes obediently. 

A moment later, he feels a dip at the edge of the mattress. She lets air out slowly through her nose, and when she speaks her voice is calm.

“Your father won’t be home until tomorrow. He’ll have a look at you then.”

“Maybe Dad will know what’s wrong. He specialized in conditions that affect the immune system. Should I be talking to him?” he wonders.

He visualizes his father: olive-skinned and broad-shouldered, thick dark hair parted to one side, heavy brows and a strong chin, with a permanent look of appraisal in his hazel eyes. He’d always been slightly disappointed in his son for bearing no physical resemblance to him whatsoever, instead being the spitting image of his fair, fine-boned blond mother. 

He focuses on small details -- the thick Czech accent, the smell of pipe-smoke clinging to his clothes – wondering if it will summon him. But, as usual, his father doesn’t appear.

A sudden chill runs through him, and he shivers hard. His mother lays a hand on his forehead.

“I don’t know if I should put another blanket on you,” she frets, “You’re hot, but you’re shivering.”

“Better not to. Shivering is just a response to the body’s internal thermostat resetting itself. I’m not actually cold.” 

She narrows her eyes and pushes his hair off his forehead. “Is that a rash?” 

“I don’t think so. Not last I checked.”

“I’m calling your father again,” she mutters, standing. “I can’t keep doing this all by myself.”

“Ask him if he knows what’s causing the white cell depletion.”

“I wonder if that bloody woman is there,” she says under her breath, “God, I need a drink.”

*

“He’s stable,” announces Foreman, “Fever is holding at 104. We brought it down in time to prevent another seizure.”

He’s reporting back to House, who had gone home to take a shower and returned to learn that Chase was back in the ICU with another brain-boiling temperature, rambling delirious nonsense to his long-dead mother.

“104 is still too high,” House frowns, pensively staring out the window at a darkening grey sky.

“Better than 105.6,” Foreman grumbles.

House takes note of Foreman’s reflection in the glass. “You changed your clothes.”

Foreman sighs resignedly. “He threw up on me when we were transferring him onto the stretcher.”

House mulls it over. “That’s new.” 

“There are only so many times we can pump him full of muscle-relaxants and anti-shivering drugs; if his temperature goes any higher, he could slip into a coma,” Cameron worries, “We have to find the underlying cause.”

“His kidney and liver function tests both came back normal. Even though we both struck out on the diagnoses, at least it helps us rule more things out,” says Foreman, aiming for positivity but coming up short.

“Headache,” House says, seemingly to himself.

Cameron and Foreman stop talking. House rubs his temples, squeezing his eyes shut.

Cameron falters slightly. “You have a headache?”

“ _He_ had a headache. I thought it was just the sedatives wearing off,” House mutters angrily. “Stupid. I missed a symptom.”

“That’s because you’re exhausted,” Foreman snaps. “You’ve barely slept in the past twenty-four hours. You need to go home for more than just a shower.”

“You’re crashing,” Cameron tells him gently, “The stimulants are wearing off. You need to rest.”

House doesn’t seem to hear them. He just looks off out the window with a thousand-mile stare.

After a moment of wavering, Cameron and Foreman lose patience and turn away from him to continue throwing out thoughts. They propose and rule out subdural abscess, cavernous sinus thrombosis, and normal pressure hydrocephalus before House finally comes out of his daze.

With his fellows too busy discussing hospital-acquired superbugs to notice him moving around, House wanders over to the light-box to stare at the imaging scans. Prying a film off the light-box, he takes it with him, holding it over his head against the light from the ceiling lamp.

“Were you holding his neck when he puked on you?” he asks loudly.

Foreman breaks off his conversation with Cameron to look over at House, slightly befuddled. “I was holding his head and neck in place while Cameron was strapping him in.”

House nods. “Headache, neck pain, vomiting… Combine that with the high fever and seizure and you’ve got encephalitis,” he states, waving the film for proof, “Look at this slice here and tell me I’m wrong.”

Foreman crosses the room to take the film and hold it in front of the light-box. He gives it a long, scrutinizing look.

“T2 weighted image shows widely distributed multifocal high signal lesions in both cerebral hemispheres, with swelling of the cortex and bilateral, symmetrical involvement of the dorsal striatum. You’re right,” he nods in agreement. “Slightly unusual presentation, but you’re right.” 

“It’s another symptom,” says House, looking vindicated, “And it’s rare. We’re getting closer to the primary infection. Confirm with an LP and start him on acyclovir and interferon.”

As Cameron and Foreman make their way out, House’s mind snags on a thought.

“Hey Foreman,” he calls out. Foreman turns back around.

“You said there was unusual brain activity during the scan. What did it look like?”

“There was decreased activity in the dorsal anterior cingulate and boosted connectivity to the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex and insula. Makes sense; he was already hallucinating when we pulled him out of the machine.”

House taps his cane on the floor, thinking. “Did he say anything interesting to Mommy while he was delirious?”

Foreman looks unsettled by the question. “Nothing that made any sense. How come?”

House shrugs, “Probably nothing. Just a thought.”

*

House stares appraisingly at the image on his laptop screen. He’s been thinking about Chase’s dead parents.

House has at least some inkling of what Chase’s father was like, having met the man. House had held opinions about Rowan Chase long before he’d shown up to PPTH and had chosen to divulge his terminal cancer prognosis to House rather than to his son.

Four years earlier, the world-famous rheumatologist had responded to grapevine news of House’s fellowship opening by bypassing House entirely and making a phone call to Cuddy. 

When Cuddy had ordered House to interview the senior Chase’s offspring, he had looked forward to deflating the man’s ego with a swift boot in the direction of his kid. House had already selected a fellow by then, anyway (Peter Something-or-other, a pathologist whose interview had proved him to be a complete and total jerk. House had figured he’d fit in well). Then Chase had shown up, ruining House’s plans.

House had started the interview by dumping cold coffee on him to see what he’d do, and threw him headlong into a hypothetical DDX. Chase had remained unflappable, barely bothering to blot the coffee off his lap with a napkin, and had solved the case in less than five minutes.

Intelligence-wise, he was both openly curious and deceptively shrewd, with a knack for lateral thinking that jived with House’s own offbeat rhythms and sideways logic. Personality-wise, he’d struck House as an odd duck; everything about him seemed slightly mismatched, starting with his interview outfit. His deeply unfashionable, slightly nerdy exterior was at odds with his looks, which were frankly distracting. House had forgotten that Rowan Chase existed, and hired Robert Chase on the spot.

What little House knows about Chase’s father is still far more than what he does about Chase’s ill-fated mother. An internet search had yielded a short obituary and photo. The obituary read:

_ Evelyn Marie Chase _

_June 24, 1958 - May 6, 1998_

_Evelyn Marie Chase passed away Wednesday, May 6 at The Royal Melbourne Hospital after battling a long illness._

_She married Rowan Chase, September 14, 1978. They were later divorced. To this union was born her beloved son, Robert, on February 12, 1979._

_She attended Our Lady of Mercy College and graduated in 1976. She also studied at the University of Melbourne in 1977._

_A devout Catholic, she was a regular volunteer and parishioner at St. Francis’ Church._

_She is survived by her son Robert Chase, mother Catherine Richards, father Paul Richards, sister Deborah Whitmore and many aunts, uncles and cousins._

_Vigil Service will be held in memory of Evelyn on May 8, at 1:00 p.m. at St. Francis’ Church._

_Funeral Service will be held at St. Francis’ Church on May 9, at 9:00 a.m._

Having also read Rowan Chase’s (much longer and more illustrious) obituary, House can make a few inferences:

Rowan’s birth year was 1938, making him an even twenty years older than his wife. He’d been teaching at the University of Melbourne in 1977, when she’d been a student there.

Their marriage had taken place five months before Chase was born, which meant that she was already four months pregnant at the altar. She’d been nineteen years old when her son was conceived. She’d died twenty years later at the age of thirty-nine.

The rest of what House knows had come in the form of a single angry, clipped retort from Chase: that his mother drank herself to death after her husband left her, leaving Chase with no option but to care for her until she died.

The woman in the photo is blond and gorgeous, bearing such a strong resemblance to Chase that it’s like looking at a female version. She’s smiling demurely at the camera, dressed in a white tennis shirt with a delicate gold cross around her neck. 

It’s hard to imagine that a woman like this, with youth, beauty, and privilege on her side, could have been so incredibly screwed up. The more he looks at the photo, the more he sees Chase gazing back at him.

He idly wonders how often Chase must have seen her drunk. For a young woman to die of liver cirrhosis, it had probably been on a daily basis for years on end.

House doesn’t feel sympathy; he never does. He feels a finely tuned interest in what makes his patients tick, and a tragically dead mom was always high on the list. And even though Chase and his father hadn’t been close, House remembers how devastated he’d been when he’d learned that the man was dead – enough to fatally misdiagnose a patient, and get himself investigated and suspended from work for a week.

He gets a text from Cameron telling him that Chase had briefly woken up. Lowering the laptop screen, House sits momentarily in the dark.

He has questions. It’s time to get some answers.

*

Chase wakes up to pain. He feels like his brain has been scooped out of his head like a melon-ball and dropped back in. His whole body aches like he’s been hit by a truck. His first thought is to wonder if Cameron is still nearby to hit him with another tramadol injection to numb his suffering, and hopefully knock him back out.

“You hypnotized yourself.”

Chase blinks a few times in surprise to find House once again sitting beside him in the ICU, holding his Gameboy in his hands. House looks as though he’s been on a bender, more scruffy and wild-eyed than usual, with unkempt hair and dark hollows beneath his eyes. He’s looking at Chase as though he might be relieved or happy to see him, or maybe this thought is just a product of Chase’s feverish, pain-ridden mind. 

“How would you know that?” he asks slowly.

“Because I’m part of your hallucination.”

Chase blinks confusedly, a pounding headache clouding his comprehension.

House sighs, “You were in the MRI machine, you idiot. The neural activity monitor picked it up. Foreman wrote it off as a hallucination, but your brain activity suggested a state of hypnosis. What did you think you were doing, altering your mental state in the middle of a head scan?”

“Trying not to have a panic attack. Obviously, it backfired,” Chase concedes.

“Your temperature shot up again while you were in the scanner. You were talking – a lot.”

Chase remembers the dream-state he’d been in during the scan. Cautiously, he asks, “Was I talking to anyone in particular?”

“Mommy was there. Apparently, you two had quite the chat.”

Chase cringes. “Were you there? Did you hear-?”

“No. Cameron and Foreman were there. They said it all sounded like gibberish.”

Chase bites his lip. “It was a memory, from when I was little.”

“Tell me about it.”

"I was sick, and she was taking care of me,” Chase says reluctantly. “That’s pretty much it.”

“You were sick? What was wrong with you?”

“I had a fever.”

“Anything else?” House urges him on, looking impatient.

“Not that I could tell. She might have mentioned a few other things...”

“Like what?”

House’s line of questioning is making him uncomfortable. “I don’t know… to be honest, I’d rather not overanalyze it.”

“Cut the crap, Chase. If your subconscious is trying to tell you something, I need to know what it is.”

Chase sighs, and finally relents. “At first she thought I had a sunburn; we were at the beach. Then she asked if I had a sore throat, and later she thought I had a rash.”

“All symptoms you don’t have,” House ponders, “Unless you do. How’s your throat?”

“Dry. Doesn’t hurt, though.”

House fills a cup from a pitcher on the tray. “You don’t have a sunburn. Did you get one when you went surfing?”

“Maybe a little. I wore sun-block, but it comes off in the water.”

“How about a rash – does anything feel itchy or sore?” 

“No. Honestly, I think it was just some old memory I was reliving,” Chase nods in thanks as House hands him the cup. “Whatever I had then isn’t what I have now.”

“What did you have?”

“Strep, probably.”

“With a rash?”

“Once or twice,” Chase sips at his water. “When I was five or six, I had strep develop into scarlet fever. Rash everywhere. Mum was in bits when it broke out.”

“Scarlet fever,” House echoes. He squints hard at Chase. “You do look a little blotchy…”

Chase shakes his head. “Strep test came back negative, and the antibiotics would have cleared it. I’m probably just flushed.”

“Let’s check you for a rash, anyway. They can be sneaky, hide in your mouth, or in between your toes. Sit up.” 

“I’ll check myself out, thanks.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” At Chase’s puzzled expression, House says, “Cameron and Foreman didn’t tell you about the other night when we took a shower together?”

“Uh… no?”

“You know that famous 'kiss in the rain' scene from _The Notebook_? It was kind of like that, only you were having a seizure.”

“Thank God for that.”

“You want a nurse to do it? Fine,” House picks up the phone. “Hello, is this the nurses’ station? Doctor Chase needs to be examined for a rash. Full body check, no inch of skin left unexposed.” He hangs up. “I’ve always wondered what it would look like if every nurse in the hospital dropped what they were doing to have a catfight in the hall.”

Chase is embarrassed. “I really don’t think that’s necessary…”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re checking for everything now. You’ll just have to roll with the punches.”

Chase nods and feels a knife-like pain at the movement. It’s like his spine has fused into something inflexible and solid. He screws up his face and bites back a gasp.

House leans forward, “What’s wrong?”

“My neck is stiff,” Chase swallows, rubbing it with his hand.

House sits back again, “Yeah, about that... We know what brought on the fever and seizure. We need to do a lumbar puncture to confirm, but your head scans show all the markers of encephalitis.”

Chase is horrified. “My mental state isn’t altered...”

“You’re lucky it hasn’t progressed that far. We started you on interferon and acyclovir because we’re assuming it’s viral, and you’ll need to take oral anti-inflammatories.”

Chase is finding it hard to focus on what House is saying. Encephalitis means brain swelling, which could lead to permanent brain damage, physical disabilities, coma... death. 

“Are we any closer to figuring out what’s causing it?” Chase asks, trying hard to keep his voice level.

“Not yet. But we’re narrowing it down,” House tells him. It’s the best that he can offer. “How’s your stomach?”

“Queasy,” Chase acknowledges. A memory half-surfaces. “Was I sick in the MRI room?”

“You certainly were. You blew chunks on Foreman.”

“Good thing he loves me so much,” Chase sighs dejectedly.

“You’ll be getting the dry-cleaning bill, I’m sure. You took out his favorite suit-vest.”

“I’ll apologize when I see him,” Chase notes the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Although with how I’m feeling now, he should probably wait on it a while...”

House nods. “Nausea is an early symptom, it should pass fairly quickly. But you might want to have a bucket handy for the next few hours.”

Chase swallows heavily, and there’s a moment of silence. House eventually interrupts it.

“Nice boxer-briefs, by the way. Black is really your color.”

“Shut up, House.” 

*

House is standing in front of the vending machine, pressing the button for a bottle of Poland Springs when his cell rings.

Removing it from the pocket of his blazer, he sees that it’s Foreman. He and Cameron had been sent to check on Hot Dog Guy, and carry out some tests and procedures that had fallen by the wayside. He answers, “What?”

House can hear drama going on in the background. Foreman is speaking loudly, with a strained edge to his voice.

“The patient is experiencing chest pains and complaining of radiating pain in his jaw. He’s got tachycardia. I think he might be having a heart attack.”

“Did you take his blood pressure?” House shifts the phone to his other ear, blocking out the sound of a crash-cart hurrying by.

“Cameron is doing it now.” House waits until Foreman comes back with, “192 over 98. He’s deep in the red zone.”

So definitely a heart attack, then. “Get him to the ER and catheterize him. Run an EKG. Let me know what you find out.”

“We’re on our way there now.”

After hanging up, House digs into his wallet, searching for more change. Annoyed, he realizes he’ll have to break a twenty if he wants his can of Coke, and decides he’ll do it later at the ICU nurses station. First, he needs to go check on Patient #1. He’d left Chase about an hour ago, and after grabbing himself a sandwich and forcing Wilson to pay for it, he’s reinvigorated enough to return.

The news about Hot Dog Guy puts a crimp in his plans, though. He’d been suspecting that heart involvement was in the post, but he’d been hoping they’d get out in front of it. Chase becoming deathly ill in the meantime had derailed his focus. The timing is bad; House had been hoping to avoid having to juggle two extremely ill patients at once; he can only imagine the grief he’ll get if he has to start choosing who to prioritize.

Right now, the math isn’t difficult. If Hot Dog Guy’s kidneys and heart are both failing, he’s currently in worse shape than Chase is; imminent death by multiple organ failure trumps headache and nausea, easy enough. House will have to make it a brief visit, and Chase will have to fend for himself for a while.

As he’s hobbling across the busy ICU floor, House’s phone rings. It’s Foreman again.

“The patient suffered a cardiac event en route to the ER and had to be shocked back into rhythm. It was pretty touch and go there for a minute or two. Sinus rhythm has returned to normal, but we still don’t know the extent of the damage he may have incurred.”

“Do the EKG and text me with updates. Page me if it’s urgent.”

“We will. Afterward, we’re heading upstairs to the office to figure out what’s causing this. When are you coming back here?”

“Soon enough.”

“Okay. Well, try and hurry.”

*

Taking rapid, shallow breaths, Chase hovers over the metal bedpan he’s clutching. His stomach churns, and he starts to gag. 

“I’d say ‘let it all out’ but it’s hard to imagine you haven’t already,” House comments, watching dispassionately as Chase proves him wrong by forcefully bringing up stomach-bile.

Chase spits a few times and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He takes a sip from the bottle of water House had given him and swishes it around in his mouth. “What are you doing back here?”

House leans both hands on his cane. “I need a consult with my friendly neighborhood intensivist.”

“I’m a little busy right now,” Chase replies, nodding meaningfully at the bedpan.

“Well, it’s not like you’re going anywhere. You can still DDX between dry heaves.”

Chase looks around futilely for a nurse who might be available to empty the bedpan. He’d do it himself, but standing up doesn’t feel like a good idea right now. “I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate. Why aren’t you brainstorming with Cameron and Foreman?”

“Thought I’d talk to you first,” House wanders over to the corner, where boxes of cookies have started piling up. Chase hopes desperately that he isn’t going to open them and force him to smell or look at food. 

“I should probably step back from the case now, to be honest,” Chase says distractedly, still trying to catch the eye of a nurse.

House gives him a curious look. “Where did this come from? You were all over the case like a rash before. It’s not like you just figured out that you’re sick, so what changed?”

“I got sicker?”

House doesn’t seem to buy it and squints at him with suspicion. Seeming to have a sudden epiphany, he wheels around and goes back to the pile of cookies and get well cards, where he discovers the smoking gun he’s looking for. Picking up a small brown teddy-bear holding a “Get Well Soon” balloon, he exclaims in betrayal, “Wilson!”

Chase tries to look nonchalant. “He stopped by for a visit. It was nice of him.” 

“He came to tell you how evil I am for forcing you to work cases from bed. And he told you not to tell me he told you.”

“He’s probably right that I shouldn’t be working cases,” Chase confesses, “My involvement could be detrimental if my brain isn’t functioning properly.”

“Suit yourself. I know you’ll come crawling back, as soon as the meds and the boredom kick in.”

“I’m going to be sick again,” Chase warns him, feeling his stomach turn. He looks down in horror, realizing that the bedpan still needs to be emptied first. He looks to House in desperation.

“Oh, for crying out loud, give it to me,” House makes a disgusted face and snatches the bedpan, hobbling over to a nearby sink.

Chase begins panting. “House…I don’t think I can wait… ”

“Hang on one second!” House snaps, pouring out the contents and rinsing it briefly under the tap.

But Chase can’t hang on any longer. Without a receptacle, he has no better option than to lean over the side of the bed and aim for the floor.

House, rushing over, startles as greenish-yellow liquid sprays the floor in front of him, leaving tiny spatters on his expensive Nike sneakers.

“Lovely,” he mutters to himself, handing Chase the rinsed-off bedpan for him to heave into. “Nurse! We’re going to need an extra bedpan over here, preferably several. And a mop.”

A couple of nurses hurry over to lay down paper towel and assure them that a janitor will be along soon enough. Chase sags over the bedpan in his lap, feeling deflated. House pries it out of his hands and goes off to empty it again.

A nurse arrives with extra bedpans and House goes shuffling off for a while, leaving Chase staring into the middle-distance. When he returns, he’s holding bottles of water and Gatorade, and a Coke from the vending machine. 

Chase’s hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead; House brushes it back to lay a hand there. “You’re clammy. Probably low blood sugar from all the puking.”

Chase eyes the Coke queasily. “I can’t drink soda.”

“That’s for me. I asked a nurse to hang you a vitamin drip.” 

He closes his eyes and shudders. “I feel really ill, House.”

“That’s because you are. But you’ll feel better if you get some fluids to stay down. Here,” House hands him a bottle of Gatorade. “Take small sips.” Chase takes the bottle and sips it without enthusiasm.

Chase has never felt this sick in all his life. He can barely describe the feeling in his head; it’s like his brain is trying to push it’s way out through his skull, which in fact it actually is. Between the uncomfortably high fever, excruciating headaches, and the feeling like his internal organs are dissolving and trying to escape through his mouth, Chase is beginning to think that slipping into a coma doesn’t sound so terrible, after all. Or maybe dying in his sleep.

Chase’s eyes are still closed when House says, “Hey. You’re in pain. It’ll pass.”

All of a sudden, as if to corroborate House’s statement, an immense wave of pain takes hold of him from inside his head. He gasps at the intensity of it. It’s so all-encompassing that he feels swallowed up and temporarily blinded.

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a whine and a scream. “Aaaah… House…my _head_ …”

“It’s the swelling,” House says with authority, “You need to be started on painkillers. I’m going to inject some into your IV.”

“My head… it hurts,” he repeats, pressing his thumbs against his closed eyelids, red spots dancing behind them.

“I know it does,” House says calmly, filling a syringe from a small clear bottle. He injects it into the line. “It’s bad right now, but it will get better soon. The meds are going to take care of it.”

House fusses with the tangled IV line for a minute or two while Chase makes little whimpering sounds. The intensity of the pain begins fading as fast as it came. When Chase’s eyes open, House is shining a penlight at them. When he’s finished, he sits down in the chair beside Chase’s bed.

“Tell me the cute story you like to tell the patients about having your tonsils removed,” House requests.

Chase stares at him in incomprehension.

“Hey!” House snaps his fingers in his face. “Your pupils are dilated. I need to know if it’s from pain, or if you’re exhibiting neurological symptoms. Tell me the story.”

Chase tries to focus. “When I was twelve, I had my tonsils out. I got to skip school and eat lots of ice cream, and it made me want to become a doctor,” he says by rote, careful to speak clearly. 

“Is the last part true?” House looks genuinely curious.

“Sort of,” Chase admits. “That was the first time I remember thinking it. There’s more to it than that, obviously.”

“I wonder sometimes. Seems like an odd fit for you, when you could have had a lucrative career modeling boxer-briefs, or fronting your own boy band.”

“There was a time when I wanted to impress my father,” Chase says with a rueful smile. “Then I realized I was good at it, and it didn’t matter what he thought.”

House looks at him appraisingly and keeps whatever he’s thinking to himself. “We’re going to do another neuro exam,” he announces. “Think you can handle it?”

“If I have to.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

They run through a neurological examination. Some of Chase’s responses are slower than normal because of how hideously ill he’s feeling, but overall House seems satisfied that his brain hasn’t turned to mush.

A nurse arrives to attach the vitamin drip that House had requested; after that, the janitor comes to mop the floor. Chases is sick three more times, drinking water in between, which almost immediately comes back up. House stays with him throughout, not talking much, just staring at him or playing with his Gameboy. He thinks he hears House’s pager going off occasionally but decides he’s probably imagining things.

After his latest vomiting session, another spike of indescribable pain erupts in Chase’s head. He moans and clutches his forehead, not caring anymore whether House sees him at his worst; they’re long past that, at this point.

“Chase, calm down,” says House in a stern tone.

“It hurts…I can’t… I can’t…” he murmurs brokenly, not even sure what he’s talking about.

He dimly wishes that his mother was here, although she’d have been just about as comforting as House is. The thought has the unintended effect of making him suddenly burst into tears.

House looks duly horrified. Chase doesn’t care. He breaks down and loses it right in front of House, heavy sobs wracking through him. He hardly knows what’s making him so hysterical, but between the nightmarish pain in his head and the horrible trip home and this punishing illness that’s pounding him into the ground each day with new vigor, he has plenty of causes to choose from.

“Stop crying,” House barks, “You’re not a baby. You can handle a little pain.”

“I know, and I don’t care. Please just go away,” Chase chokes out, hiccupping, his face a mess of tears and snot.

House looks at him a few moments with a mix of emotions playing on his face, like he can’t decide whether or not to ignore the request. Then he stands up and gently pushes Chase back down onto the mattress.

“The worst you’re going to feel is over the next few hours before the meds have had a chance to take effect. I’m going to give you something to help you sleep through it,” he tells him, brandishing a needle and syringe. He takes another clear bottle from the cart and, when it’s filled, injects it straight into Chase’s vein.

Chase feels the effects almost immediately. His eyelids flutter shut and he’s oblivious to pain, and House, and everything else. He sleeps.

*

“Hirschprung’s Disease,” says Foreman suddenly, lighting up like a lamp.

Cameron looks up in question from the book of rare diseases she’s been flipping through. They’ve been poring over medical texts in silence for nearly an hour, paging House every fifteen minutes.

“It accounts for everything,” Foreman says animatedly, “It’s a congenital condition caused by missing nerve cells in the bowel, which results in issues with passing stool. In a healthy digestive tract, food and waste move through the intestines by peristalsis or involuntary muscle contractions. But in someone with Hirschsprung's, peristalsis stops in affected parts of the large intestine. The waste just sits there, causing the colon to swell and turn into megacolon. If it were to perforate, the bacteria released would lead to sepsis.”

“Which would mean he needs immediate surgery,” Cameron says slowly, knitting her brow.

Foreman nods. “We need to bypass the part of the colon that’s lacking nerve cells. We have to decide between pull-through or an ostomy.”

“Where is House?” Cameron wonders anxiously. They’d paged him again five minutes ago.

“Fifty bucks says he’s in the ICU, holding Chase’s hair back,” Foreman mutters angrily.

“Chase is his patient, too. He’s very sick…”

“At least he’s stable. House can’t be ignoring pages when one of his patients is critical. And just so you know, if the patient dies because he can’t be bothered to show up, I’m filing an official complaint with Cuddy.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she says uncertainly.

“Well, no point waiting for him. The patient’s heart is failing. We need to take action.” 

Cameron bites her lip. “I don’t know… I think we should wait for House.”

“We can’t. The patient could have another heart attack or go septic while we’re twiddling our thumbs. We need to act now.”

Neither of them says what the other is thinking: that Chase is normally the one to weigh in with the most gravity on intensive procedures. If he was around, they’d both be looking at him. 

“Pull-through is less invasive,” Cameron says unsurely.

“I think an ostomy is the better call,” Foreman decides, weighing odds for optimal recovery. “It’s the riskier surgical option, and he’ll have to wear a stoma bag. But it will save his life.”

Cameron nods in reluctant agreement but has some doubt in her voice. “You really think this is what’s killing him?”

With firm conviction, Foreman says, “Yes.”

“Alright,” Cameron lets a breath out through her nose and stands up like a good little soldier. “If House isn’t answering, we have no choice but to act in the patient’s best interest. Let’s do the surgery.”

*

“This is vindictive,” Wilson mutters, voice muffled through the bathroom door.

House sits on the floor outside Wilson’s private bathroom, bouncing his tennis ball against the wall across from him. “That’s for meddling with my patient. And by proxy, my other patient.”

“For your own good. For _his_ own good. It’s not like he’ll listen to me, anyway.”

“You’d be surprised. The brain swelling is making him impressionable.”

“All I did was urge him to prioritize his health, and point out that he may not be at the top of his diagnostic game.”

House frowns discontentedly and throws the tennis ball extra-hard. “Stop putting ideas in his head. I know how much he can and can’t take.”

“That’s the problem, House; I don’t think you do,” Wilson says, exasperated. “He’s down there puking his guts out, with a raging fever and a brain infection, and you want to put him to work. How sick does he have to get before you realize that he shouldn’t be DDXing from his bed in the ICU?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to come up with anything useful,” House says defensively, “I thought he could use a distraction. Besides, we never even got that far. He couldn’t stop barfing long enough for me to even use him as a sounding board.”

House’s assertions are interrupted by a long groan from the bathroom. Wilson, shy flower that he is, starts running the sink to mask whatever noises he’s making.

“It doesn’t help that both of my patients are hitting bottom at the same time,” House rolls the ball back and forth between his hands. “Hot Dog Guy is dying, and Chase keeps getting sicker and sicker. I can’t seem to hit the mark with either of them.”

The toilet flushes. “You’re used to focusing on one case at a time. And you’re not usually having sex dreams about the patient.”

House snorts loudly. “That’s what you think.”

“I’m just saying that Chase isn’t a regular patient to you. You’re invested in him. Maybe you’re distracted,” Wilson says. “How much of that stuff did you put in the coffee, by the way? Am I safe to leave, or…?”

“I’d keep sitting there if I were you.”

“Fine,” Wilson says ruefully, spraying air freshener. “I’ll just skip my meeting with Cuddy, then.”

“You could keep it. You might want to have a janitor on standby, though.”

House’s pager buzzes. It’s Foreman. He pockets it again.

“Is that your pager going off?”

“Indeed it is. I’ve been ignoring it.”

“Why are you ignoring it, if the patient is critical?”

“I’m not ignoring _him_ ; I’m ignoring the functional members of my team. They’re in a tizzy because I left them to think for themselves for a few hours. I know what’s been going on; I’ve been reading the updates they’ve been texting me.”

“Why aren’t you there? Your patient needs you!”

“Because it’s easier to think without Angry Tinkerbell and Oscar the Even-Grouchier glaring at me in resentment.” 

“Why weren’t you there in the first place, before they got mad at you?”

“What difference does it make?” House’s pager goes off again, followed by a text to his cell. Reading the message, he says, “They’re treating Hot Dog Guy for Hirshprung’s disease. It’s actually not a half-bad diagnosis. If I was on my game, I would have thought of it myself. They’re taking him into surgery.”

“That’s good news,” Wilson says positively. “Maybe one of your cases is solved, which means you can give the other your full attention.”

House narrows his eyes and stares off intensely. “Maybe…”

Sighing, Wilson asks, “What type of laxatives did you use, by the way? I’d like to know what other side-effects I have to look forward to.”

House digs out the packet of laxatives from his pocket and reads through the ingredients.

Suddenly, a slow smile spreads over his face.

“Gotta go,” he says, “Wilson, you’re a genius.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll come back later, after I’m done brilliantly saving the life of a patient!” House yells on his way out, “Read a magazine.” 

“House, wait! I’m running out of toilet paper!” Wilson calls out fruitlessly, as the doors to his office swing shut behind House. 

*

“Get him out of there. You don’t need to operate,” House says into his cell phone, getting off the elevator on the second floor and heading toward Surgery.

“You’re too late, House. He’s already on the table; the operation is about to start. If you’d actually bothered to answer your pages, you’d know that,” Foreman says heatedly on the other end of the line.

“Fine, do the surgery, if you want to put him through a life-altering operation he doesn’t need, and force him to defecate through a stoma bag for the rest of his literally crappy life. Otherwise, let the anesthesia wear off so I can talk to him. Meet me outside the OR, now.”

*

Several hours later, House stands in front of the whiteboard in the office. With his blue marker, he writes out a diagnosis in large letters and draws a circle around it.

It reads: _Chronic Laxative Abuse & Overdose_

“First things first: let’s talk about his current condition,” House begins. “We’ve taken him off the laxatives, obviously. His kidney function should start improving within a few days and we’ll be able to take him off the heavier medications. The damage to his heart is minimal and treatable. He’s young and healthy enough to make a full recovery, as long as he changes his naughty, laxative-taking ways.

“Now let’s talk about how he got here, and why.

“Hot Dog Guy was watching his girlish figure. He practiced a healthy diet and exercise, but he knew if he was really going to be a world champion, he’d still need to practice eating between contests. So, after practice sessions of binging on cream pies, he’d take a little something to get things moving downstairs.

“For the past six months, he’s been taking Duclolax – over-the-counter bisacodyl. A normal dose is two pills to stimulate a bowel movement within six to twelve hours. When he started getting impatient for results, he started increasing his dosage.

“The idea that laxatives actually help anyone to lose weight is a misnomer. By the time food reaches the large intestine, where laxatives act, most of the calories have already been absorbed by the body. What’s actually being purged is water, electrolytes, and minerals: all the stuff your body needs in order to function. This causes electrolyte imbalances and malabsorption, resulting in malnutrition.

“Over time, the digestive tract develops a physical dependence on the stimulants. After an initial period of water-weight loss, there’s a rebound in weight gain as water returns to the intestines and colon. The weight gain spurs on the individual to keep using, more often and at higher doses, like a heroin addict chasing that first perfect hit.

“There's also the problem of tolerance. Chronic laxative abusers damage the natural cycle of their colon, to the point where they can no longer defecate without large doses of their favorite little helpers. Such is the case with Hot Dog Guy.

“His real problems started when he won the hot dog eating contest. He’d lost his ability to defecate naturally after he’d built up too high a tolerance, so the hot dogs just sat there. All that bread and protein blocked up his intestines, and the salty toppings caused severe dehydration, hardening the stool, therefore preventing him from taking a much-needed ginormous dump.

“When he hadn’t dropped the kids off at the pool for a few days, he started upping his dosage. When that didn’t work, he started trying other brands, and other types.

“In your average drugstore, there are plenty of varieties of laxatives to choose from: bulk-forming, lubricant, hyperosmotic, saline, stimulant, and emollient, AKA stool softeners - one for every color of the rainbow.

“Some of these include Cascara Sagrada, castor oil, Colace, Docusate, Correctol, glycerin suppositories, Duphalac, magnesium citrate, Maltsupex, methylcellulose, milk of magnesia, mineral oil, Ex-Lax, Psyllium, and Senna; Hog Dog Guy tried them all. 

“By the time he visited the clinic, he was taking upwards of two packs of sixteen pills per day of Dulcolax and a mix of other types. The more he took, the more dehydrated he became, hence the more dried out his poop was. He basically turned his colon to solid rock.

“What really did him in was what we used to treat him. We first prescribed bisacodyl, simply continuing the cycle he was already on. After that, we tried a bulk-forming agent, which made the problem worse and tipped him into kidney failure; his healthy diet intensified it. Then we switched him to a magnesium-based laxative which, in combination with the laparoscopy, caused his body to go haywire and sent diarrhea blasting out of his butt with the force of a volcano.

“With each new treatment, we exacerbated a pre-existing condition and put his symptoms into overdrive. The kidney failure put a strain on his heart, which was already damaged due to the electrolyte imbalance and malnutrition. 

“When you looked in his medicine cabinet and went through his garbage, you didn’t find anything because he was hiding his addiction. When I called the pizza place where he works, one of his co-workers admitted to noticing an unusual amount of discarded boxes of Duclolax in the dumpster out back, whenever it was her turn to take out the trash. She thought it was from a neighboring teenage girl.

“Even when he was dying, Hot Dog Guy hid his addiction from us because he thought it would disqualify him from his precious eating contests, and that he’d have his titles taken away before he could make the Guinness Book of World Records – although he may still make it in there, as world’s biggest moron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the extra-long chapter! Thanks for sticking with the story so far, and my undying gratitude goes to anyone who took the time to leave kudos or comments - thank you so much for reading! X


	10. Chapter 10

“Ow,” Chase winces, as he crawls through a hatch in the ceiling of the empty house.

“Be careful. Are you up there yet?”

“Yeah. It’s filthy,” he complains into his cell phone, “My clothes are ruined.”

House snorts, “Isn’t that a pity. You’ll probably have to burn them.”

This is a dig at Chase’s entire wardrobe. House isn’t a fan of Chase’s fashion sense and says so on a daily basis. Chase has started to mismatch colors and come up with weird fabric combinations on purpose just to annoy him.

Chase is on his third week in the diagnostics department at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, working under Doctor Gregory House. He’s on his third patient, and this time he’s drummed up the courage to stick up for his theory against House’s differing opinion.

The patient had presented with headache, lightheadedness, wheezing, shortness of breath, nausea, and fatigue. Tests had revealed acute pancreatitis and nerve damage. Chase was convinced it was pesticide poisoning, and the only way House would start treatment is if he went out and proved it; hence, his first illegal activity on the job.

Committing burglary isn’t even the most unusual thing that House has asked him to do so far, but it’s the thing he’s most nervous about. Working for House has been a peculiar experience, and he’s starting to wonder what he’s signed himself up for. Breaking and entering wasn’t something they’d taught him in medical school and, even though he’s out in the middle of nowhere, he’s plagued by the fear that the police are going to burst in and arrest him at any moment.

The patient’s dilapidated farmhouse was situated off-road in a field lined by woods and railroad tracks. The yard was a dumping ground littered with old bottles, a broken washing machine, stacks of tires, and other junk. Inside was even more of a tip; it had taken Chase ages to trudge through heaps of dated newspapers, broken electrical equipment, and all varieties of rubbish, only to come up empty-handed on the first floor. He’d discovered a door in the ceiling, and had pulled down the ladder to climb up into a dusty attic.

Still holding the phone to his ear, he scans the room, which is dimly lit by a small, cobweb-encrusted window. In a corner he spots a tarp covering a large mound that’s square and possibly bag-shaped, leaning up against the wall. It’s coated in layers of grime that must date back years.

Chase lifts the tarp, sending a puff of dust into the air; he holds back a sneeze.

“I think I found it,” Chase sniffs, blinking as his eyes start to water, “There’s a bag of insecticide that’s turned on its side, with stuff pouring out. It’s next to an air vent.”

“Can you read the ingredients?”

Chase runs a gloved hand over the bag to read from it, wriggling his itchy nose, “Organosphate and carbamate. Explains all the symptoms.”

“Are you suicidal, or just a moron?”

Chase frowns, “What? Why do you think-”

“I can hear you sniffling. You’re breathing in whatever’s in the air there. Why aren’t you wearing a mask?”

Chase feels a flash of embarrassment. “Oh. You’re right, I should have. Sorry.”

“You’re going to be a lot sorrier if you keep breathing that stuff in. Those are nerve toxins. Get the hell out of there.”

“Okay. I’ll grab a sample and go.”

“Forget the damn sample. Just cover your mouth and leave.”

Chase pulls his t-shirt over his mouth and nose, but uses a spoon to scoop some of the powder into a plastic sample bag and seals it. He tries not to breathe until he’s back down the ladder and out of the house.

“Are you out of there?” House asks after a minute.

“Yeah, I’m outside.”

“Okay. Come straight back,” House instructs, “And hey - why did you say ‘ow’ before, when you first went up there?”

“Scraped my arm on a nail that was sticking out of the floor,” Chase admits.

“Did it break the skin?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

House sighs, “Alright, I’m admitting you as soon as you’re back at the hospital. You’ll have to be observed overnight to make sure you haven’t poisoned yourself, and you’ll need a tetanus shot for the cut.”

“I don’t need be admitted,” Chase objects, “I only breathed in the dust that was covering a tarp the bag was under. Besides, they sell that stuff at Home Depot! I’m sure the patient is only sick due to long-term exposure.”

“Tough luck. I don’t want to have to start shopping for new fellows already just because the one I selected is too stupid to avoid facefuls of toxins and sharp objects.”

“Fine,” Chase grumbles, removing his gloves and getting into the car.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror. His face is grimy and there are cobwebs in his hair, and his nose is running from the dust he’d breathed in. Holding his arm up for inspection, he observes a shallow pink scrape, beaded with blood, running the length of his wrist, and the sleeve of his jacket is torn.

“Chase?”

“Mm?”

“Good call on the pesticide poisoning.”

Chase’s dirty face breaks into a grin, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, okay. Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still a moron. Next time wear a mask before you go out toxin-hunting, or you’re fired. Now get your ass back here, shake a leg,” House slams down the phone.

Pulling out of the long driveway, Chase muses that, despite its eccentricities and apparent hazards, taking this job might be the best decision he’s ever made. As for House, he’s an interesting boss, to say the least. Chase thinks he likes him.

*

House can count the number of times since taking the job as Head of Diagnostics at PPTH ten years ago that he’s come into work early. He sees it as a matter of principle not to raise Cuddy’s expectations, and he isn’t a morning person. But last night he’d woken up persistently, plagued by dreams that disturbed him and, unable to get back to sleep, he’d gone in an hour before his shift began to check on Chase.

The ICU is never a quiet place, but it’s quieter early in the morning. Most of the patients are asleep, and the chattering amongst the nurses is kept to a minimum.

Chase is asleep and quiet for the most part while House circles the bed to check vitals. He’s brought his medical bag and is doing a manual check rather than rely on the monitor. Monitor readings are useful enough for approximation, but to get real accuracy, House prefers to do it the old-fashioned way. For example, the monitor tells him that Chase’s temperature is 104 degrees when it’s actually 104.1 according to House’s thermometer; oxygen saturation says 94, while his pulse oximeter says 93, and so on. Minor discrepancies, but they add up.

Aiming a penlight, House thumbs back Chase’s eyelids; pupils are normal size, equal and reactive. From his medical bag, he retrieves the sphygmomanometer and extends Chase’s arm, palm facing upward. He attaches the cuff to Chase’s bicep and palpates the brachial artery in the bend of his arm. He places the bell of his stethoscope over it and inflates the cuff to 130 millimeters of mercury, then lets it deflate two millimeters per second while watching the gauge. He listens; the systolic number lands on 90, the diastolic on 60 for a blood pressure reading of 90/60. He makes a note on his chart.

As House removes the cuff, Chase begins to awaken. Chase’s eyes settle on his, overly bright and dazed with fever and pain medication.

“House…” Chase mumbles, “House, I don’t need to be here. I’m not sick.”

“You’re sick, Chase. Go back to sleep.”

“No, I’m okay. I didn’t breathe any of it in.”

House’s stomach drops, like what happens during a dip on a rollercoaster.

“What are you talking about?” he demands, “Chase, answer me! What didn’t you breathe in?” He grasps Chase’s shoulders hard enough to startle him.

“In the patient’s house,” Chase says meekly, shrinking under the intensity of House’s stare, “In the attic.”

_The patient’s house, in the attic..?_

When had Chase last been to a patient’s house? Over a month ago, easily. He thinks about Chase’s claims in full and suddenly realizes what – or rather, _when_ – Chase is talking about.

Since the previous evening, Chase has been dipping in and out of reality, saying odd things in answer to whatever scenes have been playing out inside his head. His fever is batting away every medication they’ve thrown at it, and has shown no signs of abating; they’re not in brain damage territory, but it’s high enough to cause confusion and, apparently, wildly vivid dreams and hallucinations.

House releases his rough grip, “You _were_ sick, remember? You had a cut that became infected.”

Chase sinks back into the pillows, eyelids shuttering partway, “Oh.”

Funny, House muses, that Chase would be dreaming about his first misadventure at work that landed him in the hospital. This is the first of Chase’s fevered mutterings that House has been able to put into context. He recalls wondering what kind of hapless little twit he’d hired, but he’d also been secretly impressed with his new underling for sticking to his guns and solving his first case.

Carrying on with his examination, he feels for Chase’s pulse; it’s skipping fast as a rabbit’s beneath his fingertips. Unexpectedly, Chase chooses that moment to roll onto his side and curl his warm fingers around House’s wrist, sighing sleepily and closing his eyes.

House stands awkwardly in place while he waits for Chase’s breathing to even out. As soon as he’s sure that Chase is asleep again, he disentangles his hand from the loose grip and takes a step back.

It’s nearly time for House to head to the office to begin his shift. He watches Chase a moment longer, remembering back to those first few weeks when they were still getting used to each other. Chase had been fresh out of medical school and was eager to prove himself as a doctor. House was just as eager to prove that he didn’t need some lackey following him around.

When House had been practically forced at gunpoint by Cuddy to offer the fellowship program, he’d loathed the idea of some snot-nosed kid trailing after him, showing off how smart he was because he could spell the word ‘sarcoidosis’. But hiring Chase had proved entertaining; he was great value for money when it came to turning pink-faced whenever House made lewd or inappropriate comments in his direction, and rarely batted an eyelash whenever House sent him off to perform errands that could be classed as either illegal or insane. He was also a lot smarter than House allowed him to think he was, and often noticed things that may have slipped past otherwise. House had ended up enjoying the company so much that he’d eventually let Cuddy talk him into taking on another two fellows.

He’s seen Chase sick before over the years, but never like this. It’s all become a bit surreal when he thinks about it. House is still mystified that things have progressed to the state where his bothersome first employee has been be stricken with a potentially fatal illness, and a mysterious virus on top of it to boot. He recalls feeling his inexplicable inner alarm bells go off, back when Chase appeared to have nothing more than a nasty case of the flu, but he certainly hadn’t predicted the course of events that have taken place since.

At most, he’d figured Chase would probably be on antibiotics by now, recovering from some weird Australian parasite or an infected wolverine bite, or something to that effect. He hadn’t prepared himself to consider the possibility that his twenty-eight year old employee, who he saw every day and enjoyed berating on a regular basis, might actually die, or lose his most defining feature – the ability to use his brain. 

There are few people in the world that House gives a damn about, and he’s looking at one of them. He’s going to get to the bottom of this, and Chase is going to be perfectly fine. Anything else isn’t an option.

With a last look, House picks up his medical bag and heads off to meet with the rest of his team.

*

With the other members of the diagnostics team gathered in the lounge, House says,

“Well, that’s it for Hot Dog Guy. It was a good run – I’ll miss him. So, one case down, one to go.”

He uses his cane to tap the whiteboard over the spot where he’s written,

_-Encephalitis_

House commences, “I’m afraid we have ourselves one very sick little wombat. Foreman, you’re the neurologist – why don’t you share with the class. What symptoms do we have to look forward to?”

“Symptoms tend to be sudden and severe,” Foreman explains evenly, “They include fever, headaches, seizures, nausea, weakness, and mental confusion. In some cases, patients suffer memory loss, personality changes, and loss of motor function.”

House adds, “We’ve ticked quite a few of these off the list already. On the bright side, he’s finally stopped puking, but only because he stopped eating – we’ve had to insert a nasogastric feeding tube.”

“It doesn’t seem like the meds are having much of an effect yet,” Cameron pipes up worriedly, “He’s unstable, which means we can’t take him for scans, or ask questions. We can’t even do the LP to confirm.”

“Then I guess we’d better make stabilizing him our priority. In the meantime, we can keep taking swabs and testing his blood. There are still a few vials left in the lab, and we can always take more if we need to.”

“He’s not going to get any better if he’s still at a ten on the pain scale,” Foreman warns, having been there to witness it briefly when Chase had woken during an examination, before they’d almost immediately had to knock him back out, “We need to put him on a high dose of painkillers.”

House nods in concession, “I’ve started him on tramadol, which should numb him out but won’t leave him drooling on himself like morphine or demerol. We need him sharp enough to answer questions whenever he’s lucid.”

House turns back around and, to the right of the symptoms list, makes a few smaller notes, finishing with a swirling question mark beside each of them. He stands back, revealing what he’s written:

_-Sunburn?_

_-Sore throat?_

_-Rash?_

“What’s this?” asks Foreman, squinting at House in question.

“Possible symptoms. The last time he was off in La La Land, he had a dream about his Mom. She seemed to think these were worth mentioning.”

“You want us to look into symptoms he doesn’t have, because his dead mother saw them in a dream?” Foreman clarifies.

House thinks about it and nods, "Yeah, pretty much."

"Has it occurred to you that the dream is just a manifestation of his current reality?” Foreman asks, going on to elaborate, "A figure of authority keeps misdiagnosing him because they don't know what's wrong - does that sound at all familiar to you?"

Cameron’s brow lifts. "You're saying that Chase's Mom represents House?"

House nods in tentative approval. "Cool. I've always wanted to be a hot blonde chick. Especially a drunk one."

Cameron continues, “If we _were_ to take it literally, Foreman is right: he doesn’t have any of these symptoms. If he ever had a sunburn, it came and went before he got back from his trip. His sore throat went away days ago, and we just had him examined for a rash; the nurse looked him over meticulously and didn’t find anything.”

“Fine,” House concedes, “Let’s put it on the back burner. But bear in mind that the subconscious is a powerful thing. It might be trying to tell us something.”

Examining House with suspicion, Cameron prods, “When’s the last time you slept?”

House ignores her. “Do either of you know how to get in touch with Chase’s stepmother?” Both of them shake their heads no.

“How come? I don’t think they’re very close…” says Cameron.

“Whether they like each other or not, she’s known him since he was a kid, and she spent time with him when he was there last. Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

“Have you looked at the contacts in his cell phone?”

“Tried that. His phone is password protected.”

“We could try asking him for the code,” Foreman proposes.

House waves off the notion, “Let’s not wake him. He needs his beauty rest. I’ll put Wilson on the case. In the meantime, I want you two to run blood tests. Take a current sample for a CBC to check his white count, and use whatever’s left in the lab to test for common viruses that cause encephalitis.”

Cameron and Foreman push back their chairs to go and set about their assignments.

“You should go take a nap in one of the on-call rooms,” Foreman advises House on his way out the door.

House raises his coffee mug. “No need. But if I do need to get to sleep, I’ll have you tell me more about your personal life in that soothing voice of yours. In the meantime, I’ll be down in the ICU. I’m going to monitor him for a while, to make sure he doesn’t croak before we figure out what’s wrong with him. Now, let’s get to it – chop, chop.”

*

Foreman arrives at the lab carrying a fresh blood sample; true to his word, House had alighted in the ICU shortly after he did, and parked himself beside Chase’s bed while Foreman did the blood-draw. Foreman collected his samples and quickly left. Preparing to run both a CBC and WBC differential, he places the tubes in the automated blood analyzer and sets the machine to run.

The CBCs have all been coming back the same: normal red blood cell count, normal hemoglobin and hematocrit levels; the one marked difference is that, with every test, the white blood cell count continues to drop.

The white cell differential should give them a bit more information, not about what’s causing it to deplete, but more specificities about what’s abnormal. A WBC is made up of five different things:

Neutrophils move into an area of damaged or infected tissue to destroy bacteria. Monocytes do the same thing but are also involved in tissue repair and other functions of the immune system. Eosinophils respond to infections caused by parasites, play a role in allergic reactions, and control immune responses and inflammation. Basophils (the most negligible of the bunch) are involved in hypersensitivities.

Lymphocytes exist in both the blood and the lymphatic system. They are divided into three types: B cells (antibody-producing cells that are essential for acquired, antigen-specific immune responses), T cells (multifaceted cells that help the body differentiate between "self" and "non-self" antigens, control immune response, and attack infected cells), and NK cells (which kill abnormal cells infected with cancer or viruses).

White blood cells are the body’s main defense against infection and the driving force behind a healthy immune system. The lower the count, the higher the risk of becoming sick from any pathogen the body comes into contact with; pathogens that wouldn’t affect a person with a healthy number of white cells. Chase’s white count is way below the normal level, worryingly so. It’s the reason he’s been hit with so many secondary infections, and the reason that he’s in such bad shape now.

Encephalitis is a tricky, unpredictable infection; Foreman has seen patients walk away completely unscathed, and he’s seen very much the opposite. He’s witnessed them lose the ability to remember their own names and the faces of their loved ones. Some patients develop physical disabilities like epilepsy or speech impairment or exhibit extreme mood swings and other changes in behavior. He thought he’d seen the full gamut of symptoms over the years, but he’d never seen a patient exhibit pain the way Chase had.

Part of the problem with encephalitis is that there are so many different presentations and possible causes. Foreman is in agreement with House that it’s probably been brought on by a virus, but there are literally hundreds of viruses that could be to blame.

He doesn’t know how Chase is going to fare through it. A patient’s outlook depends on the severity of the infection; a mild case could resolve in a few days, while a severe case could take weeks or even months to fully recover from – assuming the patient lived long enough to do so. There was simply no way to tell beforehand except to medicate and monitor progress.

So far, despite an unsettling level of head pain, Chase’s moments of clarity affirm that he has remained fully cognizant. He’s passed every neuro exam and cognition test they’ve been able to give him (not many, but enough) and he recognizes everyone around him and is still in control of his speech and his faculties. He hasn’t lost any brain function from what Foreman can tell; they’ll just have to do everything they possibly can to keep it that way.

Foreman wonders what House is doing in the ICU. House isn’t one for hovering at patients’ bedsides, even if the patient happens to be his favorite lapdog. Maybe he just wants to be away from the office, like when he sneaks off to the coma ward to be by himself. Chase is about as reactive as Coma Guy at the moment, so maybe this is part of House’s process. Or maybe not – at this point, Foreman is beginning to worry that House is becoming unhinged. What that has to do with Chase being sick, he isn’t sure. If it means what he thinks it does, he may be better off not knowing.

*

At the opposite end of the lab, Cameron retrieves a blood-filled test tube from a temperature-controlled cabinet, labeled with Chase’s name and patient identification number. She’s planning to run a smear to test for malaria.

She hasn’t mentioned this to House, knowing it will annoy him that she’s looking for a parasite and not a virus, but she thinks the idea has merit: Chase had been in a hot climate where he’d likely received a few mosquito bites, and the onset period fits.

Not all of the symptoms align, but a lot of them do. It would account for the continuous fever and the accumulation of fluid in the lungs, enough to be mistaken for pneumonia on an x-ray. And cerebral malaria bears a lot of similarities to encephalitis on an MRI scan and would bring on cerebral edema, headaches, neck stiffness, vomiting, seizures, and fever spikes.

Also working in favor of her theory is: slightly low blood sugar, chills, muscle weakness, and fatigue.

Working against it is: no spleen or liver enlargement, no gastrointestinal issues apart from the vomiting, no anemia, and, most significantly, no apparent destruction of red blood cells on any of the CBCs so far.

Still, it may be that the malarial symptoms are really just kicking in now; she’ll have a look at the CBC that Foreman is running when it’s finished.

As Cameron drops the test tube into the centrifuge, her mind wanders to Chase, sick and alone in the ICU. She’s sure that House had been kidding when he said that he was going down there to stay with Chase for more than a checkup; in all likelihood, House is in the cafeteria with Wilson, discussing the finer points of a Rueben sandwich and the evils of pickles.

She promises herself that when she’s done with the blood smear she’ll go sit with Chase for a while. He doesn’t have any family here in the states, and the only brief visits he’s received have been from nurses and a couple of female receptionists, nobody who knows him particularly well. Cameron wants to be there for him as a friend. Even if he isn’t aware of her, he needs to be in the company of someone who cares. 

*

House listens to the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and watches the nurses come and go. They check vitals every half hour, and occasionally attempt to wake Chase long enough to get him to drink water or swallow pills. House recognizes some of them from around the hospital; a few belong to Chase’s fan club, and some he knows personally from (at some point or other) having royally pissed them off.

He isn’t done making enemies, apparently. When one of them makes a wrong note on Chase’s chart, House doesn’t hold back from telling her that being overweight can lead to vision problems, and that she should invest in a gym membership and an eye test. Another leaves on the verge of tears when he advises that she has a better chance of scoring a date if she does something about her chronic halitosis. The last time a nurse came around with pills and water, House snatched the cup away from her and held his hand out for the pills, eyes daring her to say something. She’d given him the tablets and stalked off, leaving House to it; Chase was his patient, after all.

House isn’t particularly desirous of taking over nursing duty; it’s just that the nurses keep doing it _wrong_. Almost every one of their attempts to get Chase to drink or swallow anything sets off a sequence of choking, spewing water, and coughing that could be easily avoided. It’s simpler for House to do it himself, and it means they go away faster.

Most of Chase’s meds are being delivered intravenously, apart from the anti-inflammatories and whatever antipyretics they’re trying on him at the moment. None of the antipyretics have helped, but the painkillers have. Chase has been drugged to the gills with intravenous tramadol, which has done wonders for the headaches, but adds to the trippy fever dreams and disorientation; on the odd occasion that he seems to become lucid, his responses are slow and unwieldy, like he’s looking for words through a fog.

Chase’s other continuing problem is respiratory issues from the pneumonia. It’s still in its early stages, and his lungs are full of fluid; he’s breathing uneasily and coughing, and his oxygen levels are low. He won’t stay still long enough to breathe through a nebulizer for very long, so it’s become difficult to treat him. At the very least, House is determined to get some cough medicine down his throat but ends up spilling a fair amount in the process. The next nurse to come around raises an eyebrow at the reddish purple stain down the front of Chase’s hospital gown.

The nurses are giving House funny looks, probably due to his reputation for never visiting his patients; the fact that he’s been sitting with Chase for so long is conspicuous. If someone were to ask him why, he’s got a few responses:

One is that Chase is in need of monitoring, since the only clues he’s currently able to give them are symptoms he may be exhibiting. It’s a perfectly valid reason, and at least partially true. Another is that Chase is a marked step up in the looks department from Coma Guy, House’s usual go-to for company when he needs some headspace away from the team. There’s also the fact that House gets too restless whenever he goes back to the office because, at the moment, they’ve hit a dead-end; all they can do is keep reeling off theories, none of which have proven to be very useful. Maybe the main reason (which House will keep to himself) is that he’s gotten used to having Chase around, and it’s throwing him off when he isn’t.

Looking down at Chase impassively, House wonders what’s going on inside his head. Whatever it is, at this particular moment, seems to be something that he finds troubling. House can’t help but pity him a little; he appears to be stuck on a hamster wheel of thoughts and memories over which he has no control. And Chase’s memories, as House has long suspected, seem to be full of nothing if not pain and loss.

*

It had been Jeanette’s idea to put the house on the market; for once, she and Chase were in total agreement. The house was just sitting there, empty and enormous, an albatross around both their necks since his father’s death. They’d formed a prickly truce, and Chase had agreed to come home and do his part.

The house would need to be sorted through before they could sell it, and Jeanette had insisted that Chase take whatever was his or his mother’s before she started moving his father’s things out.

Chase had flown across the Pacific and taken a cab from the airport. He’d arrived at the house exhausted and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a solid two days. He’d used the house key that was still on his keychain and dumped his suitcase in the mudroom, heading for the stairs leading up to the bedrooms in a zombie-like trance.

To get to the stairs he needed to pass through the living room; most of the furniture was the same, despite Jeanette leaving her stamp everywhere by changing all the knick-knacks and wall art. It gives everything a feeling of being deeply familiar, but not. 

He makes his way through the long hallway that he’d memorized well enough to pad through it silently in the dark as a teenager, when he’d started rebelling and sneaking out late at night. He reaches a spot at the foot of the stairs where he’d once found his mother passed out on the floor, bleeding from a fall, and so drunk that he’d thought she had broken her neck. It had been the first of many trips to the ER.

To get to Chase’s bedroom at the far end of the upstairs hall, he has to pass the master bedroom that his parents had shared until it eventually became his mother’s room only. After she’d died and his father had reclaimed the house, he and Jeanette had taken over it and most of his mother’s things had been donated or put into storage. Chase had been furious at the time, but now he’s grateful that he won’t be forced to sort through all of it by himself.

His father’s study, a few doors down, is where his father spent most of his time when he was at home, before and after the divorce. When Chase’s parents were still technically living together, his father had moved into the adjoining guest room and slept there whenever he wasn’t sleeping at work or Jeanette’s house. 

Chase supposes that Jeanette will be the one to sort through the study, and he’s glad not to have to. His most vivid memories of that room are of the times his mother had lost her ability to cope and had locked him in there until long after he’d stopped crying and pleading to be let out – it was one of the only rooms in the house that had a lock on it. By the time she’d open the door, she’d have sobered up and would burst into tears at the sight of him, and he’d end up having to comfort her instead of the other way around.

Reaching the end of the hall, he arrives at his bedroom and enters, feeling slight déjà vu; the room is exactly the same as he’d left it years ago: same wall posters, same desk full of school papers, same heap of footballs and rugby gear and dirty sneakers heaving out of the closet. It had probably been tidied up every so often by Elsa, his father’s housekeeper, because the room itself doesn’t look dirty. It must have been a while though, because when he lays face down on top of the bedcovers, enough dust rises up that it makes him sneeze. 

After a long time of lying there, Chase forces himself to sit up and remove his shoes and coat. Not bothering to take off his clothes, he burrows under the blankets and starts drifting off immediately. The last thought he has before his eyes close is of his mother standing in the doorway looking in on him, before switching off the light and leaving him to sleep.

*

Foreman had only come to the ICU to speak to House and briefly check Chase’s status. He’d been in the lab running tests on leftover vials of blood, but it’s been nagging at him that they still haven’t confirmed the encephalitis. It had looked pretty definitive on the head scans, but the only way to know for sure is to test his CSF. He wants to pressure House into doing the lumbar puncture, now that Chase is drugged and no longer in debilitating pain.

“How’s he doing?” he asks as he approaches the bed, which House is sitting next to.

“See for yourself,” House waves at the monitor.

Chase’s stats are lousy, which isn’t a surprise, considering how sick he is. His temperature still hasn’t budged, while his heart rate has leapt to an alarming 100 beats per minute. His respiratory rate is predictably terrible and his blood pressure dismally low, from both the pneumonia and the influx of infection in his system.

Chase himself is not a pretty sight; his cheeks are a hectic pink, and the hollows beneath his eyes are so dark that he looks like he’s been punched. His lips are cracked and split in several places. Even his hair is a bit of a mess.

Foreman lets none of this derail him. “I think we should give him the lumbar puncture, even if we have to sedate him to do it.”

“We’re not sedating him again if we can help it. Too many drugs in his system already.”

Foreman perseveres, “Then we need to do it without sedation. Until we confirm, there’s not much point in running tests, or coming up with theories.”

House looks unconvinced. “You think he’s going to hold still long enough to stick a needle in his back for thirty minutes?”

“He has lucid periods, doesn’t he?” Foreman asks, knowing this to be true.

“Sure. I’ll just be ready to pounce with a spinal needle and test tube.”

“You should be,” Foreman says with uninhibited frankness, “We don’t have time to wait around.”

House frowns, but seems to consider it. Again, Foreman wonders when he last slept. He looks haggard, almost as bad as Chase does. The fact doesn’t escape Foreman that he may have to take the reins at some point, if House isn’t thinking clearly.

“Are you planning to leave the ICU any time soon?” he asks dryly.

“I am - now, as a matter of fact. Stick around a few minutes. I need to pee and get a sandwich,” House stands up stiffly, stretching his arms above his head.

 _Oh, hell no._ Foreman is not getting roped into this.

“He doesn’t need to be babysat,” he replies, folding his arms. “Even if he did, there are plenty of nurses around, right over there.”

“Just do it. That’s a direct order from your boss,” House says decisively, “I won’t be gone long. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

There’s a short standoff wherein Foreman stares at House intensely, and House looks completely unfazed by it. House shrugs on his blazer and picks up his cane.

“Be good for Foreman,” House tells Chase, who’s completely oblivious. He throws Foreman a wink. “He promises to behave.”

Of course, the minute that House leaves, Chase begins to misbehave, quite annoyingly. He kicks off the thin blanket that’s covering him, and starts shivering a few moments later. Foreman debates allowing him to stay that way until House gets back, or calling a nurse over to tend to him. But House could be gone for hours for all he knows, and the nurses get enough harassment; he reluctantly pulls the blanket back over Chase and tucks it in at the edges of the mattress, a bit more forcefully than necessary.

Then, it gets boring. Chase mumbles to himself, coughs, and does very little, otherwise. Foreman looks at his watch; ten minutes have already come and gone. He lets a long breath out through his nostrils and taps his foot against the floor. After another five minutes go by, he leaves briefly to borrow a newspaper from the ICU nurses’ station. By the time he gets back, Chase is halfway out of bed, tangled in his tubes and pulling at them, hard. Foreman drops his paper to the floor.

“Goddamnit, Chase!” he rushes over, grabbing Chase’s hand and prying the IV catheter line out from between his clenched fingers, “Stop that!”

Chase looks up dazedly, eyes glazed and unfocused, “I have to get ready for work.”

Foreman groans mentally, _Oh, Lord._

“No, Chase. Today’s Saturday. It’s your day off,” he says gently, trying not to spook him, “You get to sleep in. Why don’t you lie back down now?”

Chase seems unsure whether to believe him, but allows Foreman to push him down onto the mattress and tuck him back in. Moments later, his eyes are closed and he’s asleep again.

Foreman sits down heavily and flaps open his newspaper, trying to calm his jangled nerves. He holds it shakily, unable to concentrate on a perfectly good article about the Enron scandal. When he peers over the top of the page, Chase has kicked off the blanket again.

Foreman ends up being there for another twenty minutes, during which he has to cover Chase back up three more times, until he finally goes around the entire circumference of the bed, tucking the blanket under the mattress as deep as it will go.

Finally, House returns, carrying a large soda and a hoagie from the cafeteria, looking refreshed.

“How’d it go? He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

Foreman regards him coldly. “He tried to get out of bed because he thought it was time to go to work.”

House shrugs, “Oh, he does that every once in a while. Did I forget to mention it?”


	11. Chapter 11

“Stop harassing the nursing staff,” Cuddy barks into the phone, “I’ve received ten complaints in the past day and a half.”

“Oh, goody. Well, tell the RN sisterhood to bring it on. I’ve got more than ten complaints about them,” House shoots back.

“You accused Nurse Anderson of attempted murder for putting on chapstick!”

“It was strawberry-flavored!” House cries out indignantly, “If she’d gotten it on her hands, she could have killed him!”

“Fine, what about the other nine? Did they all come close to setting off allergic reactions, too?”

“No, just other forms of virulent stupidity. How hard is it to sit a patient up so he doesn’t choke when he’s trying to swallow?”

Cuddy pauses a moment. “I haven’t been to see Chase yet. How bad is he?”

“About as bad as it gets. He’s delirious half the time, and his pain level is off the charts without the tramadol. He’s being fed through a tube, and he can barely breathe without being on oxygen.”

Cuddy’s voice softens considerably, “You still have no idea what brought this on?”

“No clue, and not for lack of trying,” House replies dourly, “Speaking of which, this call is taking me away from my patient. Tell your nurses we’ll get along fine if they stop messing around with him. He’s sick enough as it is.”

Cuddy sighs, “I’ll tell Nurse Anderson to be more careful and check patient charts for allergies before bringing anything into their rooms. The others I’ll warn to be prepared for dealing with your perpetually charming personality. But do at least _try_ to play nice. And keep me updated on Chase’s condition.”

“I’ll assign one of my other two minions to give you a daily report,” House grunts, and hangs up the phone.

He returns his attention to Chase, who is curled on his side, drenched in sweat, and mumbling incoherently. House has let him kick off the blanket for a while, because he seemed too uncomfortable with it on. He’ll tug it back over him again in a few minutes, or at least cover him with the sheet.

He studies the top of Chase’s blond head, once again wondering what’s going on in there. It’s hard to say what he’s dreaming about exactly, but it’s something to do with his parents. This seems to be the theme of the hour; all of Chase’s repressed parental issues are coming to the surface and leaking out. Other things, too. House has no implicit desire to be privy to Chase’s private thoughts, unless they prove to be of any use. Being a private person himself, he’d be intensely uncomfortable if the shoe was on the other foot, and it was him spilling his secrets to Chase, or anyone else. 

Placing the back of his hand on Chase’s cheek, he’s alarmed by the heat that bleeds into his skin. His touch seems to have a calming effect; Chase stills and quiets, breathing a bit more steadily. House turns his hand around so that his palm rests there instead, leaving it on him like some sort of makeshift ice pack. He should probably ask the nurses to get him some of those. Even if they don’t want to do House any favors, at least he can rely on the fact that they all like Chase.

*

He wakes up in a hospital bed, coming out of a foggy, anesthesia-induced sleep to the sound of his parents’ voices nearby, speaking in harsh, whispered tones. He keeps his eyes shut, picking up on tension. His throat is a wreck; it feels like he’s been swallowing shards of broken glass. He wonders if there’s a raw, open wound in there, or if this is just what it feels like not to have tonsils.

“Evelyn, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not!”

“Well, you’ve been drinking. I can smell it coming from your pores.”

His mother huffs, “I had a drink with lunch. Forgive me if my nerves were shot while my child was in surgery, getting one of his body parts removed.”

“Your nerves are shot a lot, these days.” 

“Well, maybe they wouldn’t be if I had any help!”

His father groans, “I’ve told you a million times, I’ll pay for a nanny. I’ll pay for five nannies if it will get you to stop badgering me.”

“I don’t want a nanny!” she sneers in disgust, “I want my son to spend time with his father. Why is that too much to ask?”

“I’m not getting into this now…”

“Then when? The only reason you’re even here now is that you’re on your lunch break! Do you even care that he’s been asking for you since he’s been here, and the only time you show up is when he’s unconscious?”

“It’s a minor procedure,” his father sighs, “Children have it done all the time; it’s nothing to become hysterical about. He’ll be discharged by tomorrow morning.”

There’s a tense silence. He tries to stay as quiet and still as possible, but he’s starting to suspect that he could be open-eyed and staring at them and neither of them would notice.

“I’m thinking of moving in with Jeanette,” his father says finally.

“Oh, perfect. This is when you decide to tell me,” his mother snorts, “Well, you can forget it. Keep seeing her, but you’re not moving out.”

“You’ve known this was coming.”

“Honestly Rowan, I don’t care what you do with your frumpy girlfriend, but I’m not giving you a divorce. It’s a sin.”

He can hear his father rolling his eyes. “Oh, now for the religious paranoia…”

“If it wasn’t for my religious paranoia, our son never would have been born, now would he? At least if you’d had things your way,” she hisses.

His father’s voice goes seethingly angry, and his mother yelps. “Evelyn, _shut up_! Just shut up, he could hear you! You need to sober yourself up.”

“Let go of my arm!”

He can hear both of them breathing loudly, collecting themselves. His nose itches, and he wants to scratch it, but he also doesn’t want them to know he’s awake. He opts to remain uncomfortable.

“Tell Robert I stopped by to see him. I’ll visit with him tomorrow at home, before work.”

He hears the door open and close, and then the room is quiet. His mother sits down in the chair beside the bed. He feels her hand in his hair, and opens his eyes slowly, as though he’s just waking up.

“Hi, Mum,” he says, surprised at how awful his voice sounds.

“Shh, baby, don’t talk. Your throat needs to heal. Just nod if you feel okay, and shake your head if you don’t.”

He nods, and she smiles, “You just missed your Dad. He came to see how you were.” She gestures to his throat, “Does it hurt?”

He nods.

“Well, the doctor says it will heal really quickly. And it means you won’t be getting sick all the time, anymore,” she tells him encouragingly, “In the meantime, you’ll get to stay home from school, and watch TV, and read books, and eat lots of ice cream. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

He smiles, and shakes his head no. 

*

“And I thought Daddy issues were the worst of your problems. Mommy issues apparently run waaay deeper,” House says when Chase opens his eyes. He’s sitting beside Chase’s bed, holding a paper cup and trying to stick the straw between Chase’s dry lips.

“What…?” Chase tries, but he can’t get more than a word out; it feels like there’s sand in his throat. He sits up slightly, and an ice pack slides off his forehead.

House persists with the straw, finally getting it in and forcing Chase to sip through it. The cool water feels amazing on his parched throat, and he starts sucking it down greedily until House suddenly pulls it away.

Chase makes a little whining sound of protest, but House puts the cup down on the table, unyielding. Instead, he picks up a container of ice chips and pushes one into Chase’s mouth.

“You were talking again,” House explains casually, “Fevers turn you into quite the chatty Cathy.”

Chase shudders to think about it. He decides not to ask what he’s been saying; whatever it was will just mortify him.

He squirms uncomfortably, kicking at the bedsheets. He’s so overheated that the ice melts in a matter of seconds. House immediately shoves another few chips in.

“Now that you’re awake, we need to do a little procedure,” House tells him. “Before we get started, where are you on the pain scale?”

Chase inventories the matter. “Zero. I don’t feel anything. I’m hot, though.”

House nods approvingly. “You’re on enough pain meds to take down an elephant. At this point, the treatment should be getting to work, so hopefully, we can wean you off the strong stuff pretty quickly. We still need to do a lumbar puncture - you were in too much pain before, but now that you’re nicely numbed up…” House gestures to the long needle used to perform an LP.

Chase nods, not looking forward to it. But he supposes it’s necessary.

House digs into his medical bag for a moment before his hand emerges with a thermometer.

“Temperature first,” he says, holding it out to Chase. 

Chase looks at him quizzically. “It’s right there on the monitor.” His voice comes out as a croak.

“I need an _accurate_ temperature reading. The monitor sensors are never exact,” House pushes it at him more forcefully. “Come on, before I change my mind. A rectal reading is even more precise.”

Chase places it under his tongue and, when it finishes registering, hands it over without bothering to look. Whatever it says makes House pull a frown.

House starts shuffling around the room, drawing the curtains around the bed and scaring off a couple of approaching nurses. Chase looks longingly at the ice chips, which are just out of reach. He gathers the energy to make a grab for them, and wants to cry when his shaky hand betrays him and sends the cup and its contents clattering to the floor.

House whirls around and curses at the sight of the melting mess at his feet. “Idiot! Why didn’t you just ask me?” He crouches down and starts scraping ice back into the cup.

“Sorry,” Chase says, feeling like he actually deserves House’s favorite pet name for him, this time.

“I need some ice chips in here!” House yells over his shoulder, dumping the cup in a trashcan. He sits back down and picks up the cup of water, once again holding it out for Chase to sip from. He lets Chase drink to the bottom until he’s sucking air through the straw before pulling it away.

House exhales through his nostrils, “Okay. We need to do the lumbar puncture. Do you think you can stay still long enough for me to do this? Be honest.”

Chase nods in affirmation. “I think so.”

Sandy, a nurse that Chase knows fairly well, arrives holding a fresh container of ice chips. She’s about to say something to Chase when House swipes the cup from her hand and shuts the curtain in her face. He puts some ice in Chase’s mouth, and sits down next to him, setting a prepared tray of instruments on the table.

“Okay. Turn onto your side.”

Chase pulls the sheets back and rolls to face away from House.

“Want me to talk you through it?” House asks gingerly. Chase can hear him snapping gloves on.

Chase has performed hundreds of lumbar punctures, but somehow the idea of receiving one makes the experience feel foreign. He figures that even though he’s well-acquainted with the process, the sound of House’s voice explaining it to him as he goes along will make it slightly less uncomfortable. “Sure.”

House carefully unties and parts the back of Chase’s hospital gown, exposing a large swathe of skin. Chase draws his knees up, feeling self-conscious even though he knows he shouldn’t. Probably because it’s House looking at him in this exposed state, curled up like a scared hedgehog in a fetal position. Definitely because it’s House.

“Iodine,” House warns him, before swirling the cold liquid circularly over Chase’s lower back. Chase manages not to move despite the slight discomfort, then, “Local anesthetic.”

The needle pricks between his L3-4 and L4-5 vertebrae; just a surface injection to start. After about thirty seconds, he feels House introduce a larger needle full of lidocaine; it’s a slow injection process, injecting and retracting repeatedly, until the needle is embedded to the hilt approximately two inches deep below the surface of the skin. It stings going in, but not as much as he’d expected it would. Chase feels House’s fingers pressing around the injection site until he doesn’t – which means that the area is already numb.

“Spinal needle,” House continues; in the eye of his mind, Chase pictures the long, thin needle that always frightens the patients. He doesn’t feel anything, but he knows from the time elapsed that it’s there, sticking out of his spine. By now House should be holding a vial underneath it, collecting drops of cerebrospinal fluid as they drip like water from a leaky faucet.

After a long stretch of silence, Chase asks, “What color is the fluid?”

“Clear.”

Chase is relieved; at least there haven’t been any more unpleasant surprises.

When he’s done collecting the sample, House uses a damp cloth to wipe Chase’s back off thoroughly, removing every trace of iodine to avoid chemical burns; next he covers the tiny puncture wound with a band-aid. Finally, he ties Chase’s hospital gown back up and taps him lightly on the hip, letting him know that it’s okay to turn over.

“I’ll get it to the lab and test it myself,” House tells him, when Chase is lying on his back.

Chase doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is, _Please don’t leave._ Instead, he just visibly sulks.

Somehow House seems to get the message, anyway. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, I’m going to send Cameron down here to keep you company. She can do her healing angel routine.”

House pulls the curtains apart, letting in the light and hubbub of the bustling ICU. His eyes scan the room until he spots Sandy over by the desk at the ICU nurses’ station. 

“Hey, you!” he barks, waving her over, “Get over here. Watch him until Doctor Cameron shows up.”

“I don’t need to be watched,” Chase says insolently, more for Sandy than for House.

House ignores him, and tells Sandy confidentially, “Feel free to shove ice in his mouth if you want to get him to shut up.”

*

House enters the lab to find a bespectacled Cameron bent over a microscope and Foreman standing in front of the blood analyzer, poring over a printout. They both look up inquiringly.

“CSF is ready for testing,” House announces as he limps into the room, holding up the sample, “I’ll run it myself. Any results on the blood work?”

Foreman nods, scrutinizing the printout, “WBC differential came back. Whatever he has is mainly targeting lymphocytes, but only B cells and T cells - NK cells don’t seem to be involved. Monocytes are also being depleted.”

House nods, and turns to Cameron, “What have you got for me?”

Reluctantly, Cameron answers, “I ran a blood smear for malaria. House, before you say anything-”

House stares in disbelief, “You’re looking for parasites when he clearly has a viral infection?”

“I had good cause to believe it was worth testing for!” Cameron says defensively, “The symptoms add up just as well as any virus we’ve looked into so far.”

“And what’s the result?” 

“Negative,” she admits.

“Great! Why don’t you use whatever blood we have left in the lab to run a few more pointless tests? Let’s go really leftfield and test for methemolglobinema; I know his skin isn’t blue, but hey, it’s still worth a shot, right?”

Foreman interrupts, “House, you’re being a jerk. Lay off her.” 

House shakes his head wearily, running a hand down his face, “No more going off-script. We can’t afford to waste time. If that means you run every test by me first, so be it.”

He walks over to take the serology printout from Foreman. Looking it over, he bites his lip in thought.

“Foreman, I want you to go talk to the stepmom; Wilson managed to find us a contact. Her number’s written down in the office,” House looks to Cameron, “You, go hold his hand. He needs to be monitored.”

Foreman leaves without sparing House a second glance. Cameron stands to clean up her work station, grateful to be sent to do what she’d been intending to, anyway.

On her way out, Cameron hesitates in the doorway, “Have you been with him this whole time?”

House nods, “I want our eyes on him until he’s stable. Our hands are tied until he’s well enough to take for scans.”

“What’s his condition at the moment?”

House shrugs a shoulder, "The same as last night. Pouring sweat, in and out of consciousness, spouting off typical fever-induced ramblings. He’s revisiting things that happened twenty years ago, or in the past month, and anywhere in between. He’ll probably think you’re his Mom at some point. He sure thought I was.”

She presses her lips together, “Is there anything else I should know?”

“His breathing isn’t great. Keep an eye on his oxygen levels and get him to swallow some cough medicine in about twenty minutes. Keep him calm if he wakes up confused; we don’t need him hyperventilating and having a panic attack.”

Cameron nods, and House hobbles off. She pauses in the doorway for one more moment.

“House?”

He glances back at her in question.

She gives him a tiny smile. “Maybe you’re not such a jerk, after all.”

*

Standing in front of the buffet table, he gets the feeling that he’s being watched.

He’s at the Royal Melbourne Hospital’s annual fundraiser, this year held at the Crown Towers. He’s accompanying his father and Jeanette, at his father’s insistence. He’d been hoping to get out of it this year, now that he’s almost a legal adult. His father had given him the usual spiel about him living beneath his roof, and therefore his rules. He’s desperately looking forward to getting out from under both of them but, until his mother is back, he’s stuck obeying his father’s demands.

He always finds it odd that at a fundraiser they seem to spend so much money on entertainment. Everything is splashy and expensive: the venue, the food, the drinks, the people. His father tells him that it’s a networking event, more than anything else. It’s true; the room is full of so much nepotism that they’re making everyone wear nametags. He’s ostensibly here as his father’s guest, but the real reason is to force him into mingling and meeting with his father’s friends.

Being the son of a world-famous doctor comes with a certain amount of baggage attached. For starters, he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and go into medicine. He was also expected to be top of his class (which he was), yet still be accused of having his father pull favors to give him advantages.

Becoming a doctor had once felt like his own idea; now, he’s not so sure. He feels like it’s been stolen from him, somehow; it feels like cheating whenever his father pushes him toward a group of his friends, presumably because they’ll one day be his future employers and colleagues.

So far, he’s managed to avoid making eye-contact with anyone apart from the massive King crab at the center of the buffet. Still feeling eyes on him, he stares determinedly at the table and spoons shrimp onto his plate.

A young man approaches to stand beside him, looking at him expectantly, “Hi.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the greeting, and wonders if he can get away with pretending that he doesn’t speak English. He could always answer in Czech.

He’d been brought up to have good manners, but he hates these functions and the people at them, especially the smarmy sons of his father’s colleagues. All they ever want to talk about is golf, or polo, or their fathers’ boats. It brings out a side of him that’s less polite.

This one looks like the type that usually sidles up to him under the pretense of making small talk, when what they’re actually after is an introduction to his father. He fits the usual description: college age, expensive watch, and preppy clothes. He’s not a boy but not quite a man either; maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s possibly more handsome than most of the other rich sons of rich doctors who posture around these events. He’s dark-haired and fox-faced, with a glint of amusement in his eyes that makes him look like he’s enjoying some private joke.

“What’s your name?” the man-boy persists.

“It’s on my nametag,” he says brusquely, heaping more shrimp onto his plate and walking sideways to make it irritating to follow him. Suddenly, the young man’s hand darts out to steal one. He pops it into his grinning mouth.

“That was a trick question. I just wanted to see what you’d say – _Bobby_.” 

He pauses mid-step, but quickly recovers.

“Only mates call me that.”

“I’m not calling you Robert. You don’t look like one.”

He shrugs, slapping a big scoop of potato salad onto his plate, just for the satisfaction of hearing it splat. “Don’t call me anything, then.”

Unfazed, the young man continues, “You’re Rowan Chase’s son. I bet that gets you pretty far with this lot,” he motions around at the soiree, “You can write your own ticket just by having Daddy arrange a few rounds of golf with his pals. Charmed life.”

“I don’t play golf.”

His companion looks entertained. “You should. I could teach you.”

“No, thanks.”

He glances around, “Where’s your Mum? I hear she’s really fit.”

“Rehab,” he replies bluntly, surprised at himself for telling this stranger the truth and not caring.

“Sorry to hear that,” He sounds anything but. He finally introduces himself, “I’m Jason, by the way. My father is big and important, too. Do you want to know who he is?”

“No.”

This response earns him an ear-to-ear grin from the stranger – _Jason_ – who now seems more determined than ever to follow him around.

“So, are you going into medicine? I know you’re smart. I hear you skipped two grades in secondary school.”

He finally looks over and asks frankly, “Are you a stalker?”

Jason’s smile widens a fraction. “Just thought you seemed interesting, that’s all. Would you like to know how I know who you are?”

“You asked one of the two hundred people here who know my father. You’re a brilliant detective.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Jason says, side-stepping the sarcasm, “Are you planning on going to medical school?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet. I might go to seminary school, instead.”

Jason looks both horrified and thrilled at the prospect. “That would be tragic.”

“Alright. If it makes you feel better, I’m going to med school to become a rheumatologist, just like dear old Dad.” He spies an empty table and makes a beeline for it, setting his plate down. Of course, he’s followed.

Jason sits down across from him and looks over to where his father is standing surrounded by colleagues, flanked by Jeanette. People are laughing at something he’s saying.

“You look nothing like him. He’s really old.”

This endears him to Jason a bit. “I take after my Mum. She’s a lot younger than he is.”

“She must be gorgeous. You are.”

He doesn’t know what to say to this. He feels his cheeks go hot, and stares down at his potato salad.

“Come with me,” Jason tugs his arm, “Before you go wasting your life devoting it to Jesus, why don’t you rack up a few sins to be forgiven for first?”

It’s clearly a challenge. Jason is toying with him, testing his limits. For some reason, this puts him at ease, and makes him feel more like himself; he’s used to having his limits pushed. He leaves his untouched plate on the table and lets himself be dragged off to another room that turns out to be a utility closet.

From his blazer pocket, Jason unearths a tiny parcel of white powder. He offers it with a curious look.

“No thanks. Drugs aren’t really my thing,” he says lamely, feeling young and naïve in the presence of someone who can’t be much older than he is.

Jason’s grin looks more fox-like than ever. He dips his finger into the powder and licks off residue before tucking the parcel away. “You’re so pure and pious – I love it.”

He suddenly feels stupid for following someone he doesn’t know into a closet. “Look, I think I should go…”

He’s cut off abruptly when Jason slams him into the wall and starts kissing him.

*

It’s been decided that Foreman will be the one to call Chase’s stepmother. He’s the logical choice, since House is too acerbic to appeal to… anyone, really. Cameron is babysitting Chase for some reason, even though there are plenty of ICU nurses there to attend him. So, Foreman has been tasked with making phone calls when he could probably be doing something more useful.

He’s also been forced to wait until late in the evening to make the call so that it comes during a normal hour in Australia, where there’s a fourteen-hour time difference. He stares at his watch until it lands at seven o’clock, making it a reasonable ten o’clock in the morning in Melbourne.

He sits at House’s desk to use the office phone. There’s a photo of Jeanette Chase on the desktop in front of him, from a scholarly article she’d written for a medical journal – Wilson had left it next to her phone number, for whatever reason. One might call her a handsome-looking woman; with dark hair pulled back from her forehead and a pair of thin-framed glasses, she has a rather studious look about her. Like her husband, she’s a doctor - an immunologist, like Cameron. She and Chase’s father had worked together in the Division of Rheumatology out of the Royal Melbourne Hospital. 

Foreman dials and a woman’s voice answers the phone. He’s surprised to hear a French accent (albeit with noticeable Aussie undertones) instead of an Australian one.

“Jeanette Chase? My name is Eric Foreman. I’m a doctor at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. I’m calling about your stepson Robert. He’s in the hospital. He’s been very ill.”

There’s a pause. “Oh… I’m sorry to hear that. What is wrong with him?”

“He’s had a number of complications, including pneumonia and now encephalitis. We think it’s coming from a viral infection that we’ve been unable to diagnose. We were hoping you could help us by answering some questions.”

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“Does Ch… _Robert_ have any health issues that you’re aware of?”

“None that I know of. When he was a child, he was prone to throat infections and had to have his tonsils removed. He was a healthy teenager, for the most part. After that, I’m afraid I can’t say. We rarely see each other.”

“His immune system is badly compromised. We’ve tested for all the usual causes and haven’t had any luck. Is there anything you can think of that we might not be aware of?”

“I don’t mean to sound indelicate, but have you looked into his drinking habits? His mother had a very bad problem, and he is like her in many ways.”

“We’ve gone down that route, and it isn’t the problem. He doesn’t drink much.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, I don’t know what to suggest,” She pauses, seeming to think, “Have you tested him for drugs?”

Foreman’s interest is piqued. “No. You think we should?”

“I would suggest it. Cocaine, specifically. He went through a phase as a teenager. My husband considered sending him to a rehabilitation facility, but he ended up going to seminary school instead.”

Foreman is surprised and uncomfortable with this information. Peeling back the layers of Chase has proved to be rather disturbing.

“Anything else you can think of?”

“Well… I doubt that it’s relevant, but his mother was severely bipolar. It’s possible that she may have passed it on to him.”

“Probably not relevant, but you never know,” Foreman agrees, wondering if it is, “Did he seem sick at all when you saw him during the trip he took recently?”

“No, he seemed perfectly healthy, from what I could tell.”

“Okay, I think that’s all. Thank you for your time and your help.”

“Not a problem. I wish you the best of luck with the diagnosis.” She hangs up, conspicuously without passing on any message to Chase, wishing him well. Foreman gets the feeling there’s a story there, that he has neither the time nor the inclination to think about.

He finds House in the diagnostics lounge, bouncing his tennis ball up and down on the end of his cane.

“I’m going to run a tox screen for cocaine,” he informs him, “Turns out he had a habit when he was a teenager. Maybe he’s picked it back up.”

House pauses with the ball still balanced on the curved handle. “Don’t waste your time. He’s not on drugs.”

Foreman feels a sudden ripple of irritation run through him. “You already know about this, don’t you?”

“I know enough. It’s nothing we have to worry about.”

“House, people lie; that includes Chase. Who is a liar even when he’s not sick. Does the name Vogler ring any bells?”

“Do the words ‘grand theft auto’ ring any for you?”

Foreman rolls his eyes. “This isn’t about me, it’s about Chase. If you think you’re protecting him by keeping us in the dark about a possible drug habit, you’re not. Anything that might help us figure out how to treat him is crucial information.”

House lowers the cane, letting the tennis ball drop to the floor. “Fine. I’ll run the tox screen myself.”

“You should test his hair, as well as his saliva.”

“Alright. I’ll come back to you within the next few hours. In the meantime, keep this to yourself, and give him a break. Remember back to the days when you were too fast and too furious. We’ve all had our youthful indiscretions.”

*

The noise of the party is muffled through the closet walls. It feels miles away, even though it’s only a few feet.

Jason is pinning him against the wall behind the door, kissing him full on the mouth. Somehow the fact that he doesn’t know this person, doesn’t even _like_ him, makes it easier to lose himself and let go completely.

His pulse is leaping, skin buzzing with electricity. He’s never kissed a boy before; he isn’t sure what he’d expected it to feel like, but it’s different to kissing girls. It’s a lot rougher and more competitive, like they’re wrestling, almost. He feels like he’s being consumed.

He kisses back with fervor, feeling a thrill of indiscretion. He thinks of how angry his father would be if he knew what he was doing right now.

“Good thing I got to you before you joined the priesthood,” Jason says breathily, nipping hard at his lower lip, “You’re way too pretty to die a virgin.”

“I’m not—”

He’s cut off. “Fumbling around with inept little debutantes doesn’t count. You have no idea what it’s like to be with someone who knows what they’re doing. If you did, you might think twice about becoming a priest.”

“I doubt it.”

Jason just smiles. “I can show you things that feel better than you can imagine. You’ll see. Now, do what I tell you, and don’t talk unless I say it’s okay.”

Jason is obviously insane. And yet, he’s also the most interesting thing to happen to him in a while. Instead of suffering through a mind-numbingly dull evening of avoiding conversation and eating crab-puffs, he’s groping around in a utility closet with another boy’s tongue down his throat, while his father holds court with his colleagues twenty feet away.

“Take your shirt off,” Jason instructs, with an expectant look.

He decides to play along. His hands are shaking as he undoes the buttons of the pressed blue dress-shirt he’s wearing. He finally shrugs it off and lets it drop to the floor.

“Now your pants.”

He shouldn’t. Anyone could walk in and, from then on, all the medical community would be talking about whenever Rowan Chase’s name came up would be of that time his son was caught mostly naked in a closet at a hospital fundraiser. He takes them off, anyway.

Jason looks him up and down, apparently in appreciation.

“Now get on your knees.”

He feels a twist of apprehension. It’s one thing to kiss a stranger in a public place; it’s quite another to give him a blowjob, which he’s never done before and is going to be embarrassingly bad at.

Shaking his head, he says, “No, I don’t want to.”

“Did I say you could talk?” Jason grabs his chin and squeezes, knocking his head back into the wall. It doesn’t hurt, but it startles him. His heart begins to beat faster. “First rule: when I tell you not to talk, you listen. Keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise, unless you don’t like where things are going. You don’t want to do something? Fine. Ask me permission to say so. I thought it might be a little soon to get into safe words, but if you can’t follow simple instructions…”

Things have taken an odd turn. He’s known this person for approximately twenty minutes and, in that time, he’s already become some sort of sex-slave. It feels oddly fitting that he’d trip into this sort of situation; he’s always had a weird thing for being ordered around, and the girls he dates aren’t very good at it. Still, Jason is clearly some sort of sadist. The smart thing to do would be to shove him off, throw on his clothes, and run back to the safety of the party.

Instead, he nods contritely and presses his lips shut. He waits obediently to see what happens next.

*

“House,” Cameron greets her boss as he enters the room, “I wanted to run a theory by you when you have a moment.”

“Give me a minute,” House brushes past her, holding a swab. He stands over Chase’s sleeping form to give him a brief appraisal.

“What are you swabbing for?” she asks, as House pokes at a red spot at the corner of Chase’s lip that turns out to be a smudge of leftover cough syrup.

“Nothing that will lead to anything,” House replies wryly, uncapping the swab, “Has he been asleep this whole time?”

“No, he only just nodded off. He’s been talking again,” she explains, watching House rub the swab along the inside of Chase’s cheek, “To some friend of his, from what I could gather. Nothing I could make any sense of.”

“That seems to be the theme,” House acquiesces. He moves like he’s about to touch Chase’s hair, then thinks better of it and pulls his hand back.

Foreman strolls in to join them, looking to House in expectation, “Did you get the samples?”

“Yup,” House drops the swab in a bag, “You’re just in time. Cameron was about to share a theory. Go on.”

“Oh,” says Cameron, feeling put on the spot, “Well, I’ve been thinking about those symptoms you put on the board. The ones from Chase’s dream: the sunburn, the rash, and the sore throat. I thought scarlet fever might be worth exploring. It causes a sore throat and a rash that looks like a sunburn, and it’s brought on by strep A bacteria, which he’s predisposed to. It would cover a lot of the symptoms.”

House chews his lip, “It can also cause encephalitis, albeit in very rare cases. The rash doesn’t present on the face, just the rest of the body. It could have come and gone without our notice; we may have just written it off as flushed skin.”

Foreman scoffs, “Scarlet fever? What year is this, 1890?”

“He’s had it before when he was a kid. Don’t put it past Chase to contract a disease associated mostly with Victorian orphans,” House jiggles Chase’s shoulder until he opens his eyes, “Good morning, sunshine! Wakey, wakey. We need to look inside your mouth. Open up.”

Chase startles awake, looking disoriented. Sitting up, he says through chattering teeth, “House? What… what is it?”

“Was it really necessary to wake him?” Cameron scowls, retrieving a blanket from the back of a chair and laying it over Chase’s lap. “He just fell asleep!”

“Oh, relax. He’s fine,” House grips Chase’s chin, forcing his mouth open wide enough to shine a penlight inside.

“What are you looking for?” asks Foreman.

“A red, swollen tongue,” House pronounces, squinting into Chase’s mouth, “Enlarged, pus-covered tonsils would be a better indicator, but his are ancient history, so this will have to do.” He releases Chase and pockets the penlight, “Tongue looks normal, but his throat is a little raw. We should rerun the strep test.” He takes another swab and bags it.

Nodding to Cameron, he says, “You’re still on hand-holding duty. Get a nurse to tag in if you need a pee-break.” To Foreman, he dictates, “You, go make yourself useful, and bring me new theories. If Cameron can do it, so can you. Otherwise, you’re swapping and you’re the new babysitter.”

“Sure. I’ll check out polio and smallpox,” Foreman mutters under his breath.

Finally, House looks to Chase, “You go back to sleep, and try not to talk Cameron’s ear off.” He pats Chase once on the head for good measure and turns to go, “I’ll be in the lab. Foreman, get to work. Cameron, watch him. Chase, make sure not to die before I get back!”


	12. Chapter 12

Chase is hiding out in the locker room at work, holding a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with shaking hands. It doesn’t take long to realize his folly in choosing this moment to eat; his jaw throbs with every chew. After another painful bite, he lowers it onto the bench he’s sitting on and abandons it for the moment.

A large purple bruise is forming on the lower half of his face, where House’s fist had landed. Last he’d checked, it was the approximate size and color of a plum. He’ll be sporting it around the hospital for at least a week, maybe two.

It had been one long shitshow of a day from start to finish. A little girl had been admitted with pancreatitis and gallstones, then broke out in a rash after gallbladder surgery. Meanwhile, Tritter (the cop who House had enraged to the point of instigating a dedicated personal vendetta) had frozen Cameron and Foreman’s bank accounts in retaliation, notably leaving Chase’s alone. To make matters worse, House’s vicodin supply had been cut off, and he was slowly going into withdrawal, growing sweatier and more unhinged by the hour.

The mistrust between Chase and his colleagues peaked when Tritter made a show of back-slapping Chase in the cafeteria, setting him up to look like a turncoat; Chase’s past history of ratting to Vogler certainly wasn’t helping his case. The little girl kept getting worse, and House was lashing out at everyone, prowling around like an angry tiger. He’d finally settled on necrotizing fasciitis as the diagnosis, which would mean amputating the girl’s left arm and leg.

At the last minute, Chase had an epiphany; the girl had grown worse each time she went under surgical lamps or outside. It was erythropoietic protoporphyria, an allergic reaction to light – incredibly rare, but treatable. He’d run after House, shouting at him to stop the surgery. When House kept walking, Chase had gotten up in his face, pleading with him to listen to reason. That was when House decked him, hard enough to lay him out on the floor.

It probably serves him right somehow, for (as Foreman bluntly put it) always kissing House’s ass. Apparently, trusting the judgment of a man who was always right was enough to class him as a suck-up. Even Cameron, who’d been annoyed with him that day, had piled on with an analysis of his ass-kissing behavior. She’d blamed Chase’s father, presuming that because Chase had done everything his father wanted, he was given everything he wanted in return; it was a strategy that worked for him. His father had gotten him a cushy job, and paid for his cushy life. As though it were that simple, and money made up for years spent longing for a Dad who came to his football matches, or showed up on his birthday, or helped him with his mother near the end of her life. Chase let slip that he’d been cut out of his father’s cushy will, and they’d abruptly changed the subject.

Comparing House to his father would have previously seemed far-fetched, except now Chase is feeling the same burning resentment towards his boss that had been a staple of his father-son relationship. It comes down to faith. He’d put his faith in House, which had been a big deal; faith meant something to him. Now it seems his faith in House has been misplaced; he’d never expected House to hit him. Even his father had never done that.

Chase’s thoughts are interrupted by an ice pack landing in his lap.

He looks up to discover House standing a few feet away. Chase wonders how long he’s been there.

“Are you crying?” House asks, brow furrowing.

Chase rubs his eyes. "Allergies,” he sniffles.

“Yeah,” House sighs, “Pollen count’s crazy this time of year.” By which he means: it’s December, and it’s snowing out.

House takes a seat next to Chase’s sandwich. From where he’s sitting, he isn’t able to see the bruise on Chase’s face.

“You saved the kid’s life,” House remarks, after a beat of silence. When Chase says nothing, he carries on, “You did good. She should name a puppy after you.”

“Yeah,” Chase snorts bitterly, “I guess that fits, since I’m yours. Apparently.”

“Why do you let people get to you?” House wants to know, “If I told you what to think, that girl would be going to her senior prom in half a dress. Instead, she’s going to live a long, weird life in the dark, thanks to you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It should. She may be a freak, but she still has all her body parts,” House gestures to the ice pack, which Chase hasn’t moved to pick up. “That’s for your face, not your lap.”

Chase just shrugs, not really knowing what to say, or caring much about his face anymore.

House presses ahead, “How about an apology? Would that help? I know HR would like it.”

“No,” Chase replies honestly, “Not your style.”

“Okay. Let’s skip that part, then. Why don’t we go straight to me telling you that if you want a free shot, you just bought yourself one,” Chase raises an eyebrow, and House says, “Seriously. Right on the kisser. I’ll let you do it in front of Cameron and Foreman. Wilson too, if he’s available. We can make it a show.”

“I don’t want to hit you,” Chase says, before adding, “Well… maybe a little.”

“You could catch me off guard,” suggests House, “Maybe in the cafeteria, send my lunch tray flying. Kick my cane out for good measure. It would be a pretty spectacular moment for a lot of fellow hospital staff I’ve pissed off over the years.”

Chase says wanly, “Okay. Maybe I’ll save it for a rainy day.”

“Good,” House reaches over to pick up the ice pack. He motions for Chase to turn towards him, “Come on. Let me look.”

Chase debates not turning, but House’s face is determined. He knows that House will get his way in the end, so it’s easier to comply. Angling himself sideways, he tips his head to the side so House can see the purpled half of his face.

House’s expression barely changes; only a trained eye would see the flicker of guilt that passes in a matter of seconds. He reaches tentatively to inspect Chase’s jaw, making him flinch involuntarily.

“Oh, good God, I’m not going to hurt you! Just hold still,” he prods gently at the surrounding skin, which _does_ hurt, “Can you open your mouth wide?”

Chase tries, and a sharp pain shoots through his jaw. He brings a hand up to cover it protectively, “It’s really sore. But it’s not broken.”

“Just a bad bruise. Needs some ice on it,” House holds the pack out, “Come on, I can’t have my employees looking like extras from _Fight Club_.” When Chase doesn’t move, House grabs his hand, shoves the pack into it and forces both against Chase’s jaw.

Chase’s football coach had done this once when he’d gotten a ball to the face and two black eyes as the upshot. He remembers sitting on the bench with bloody tissues sticking out of his nostrils and his coach pushing ice packs onto him until his face went numb. It’s even more embarrassing having House do it.

House professes, “Look, this whole Tritter thing sucks, but it has nothing to do with you. I know you don’t want me to say it, but -”

“Don’t,” Chase interrupts him, afraid he might actually cry if House says the words.

“We’re not square,” House surmises, when Chase pushes his hand away.

“Not yet,” Chase slides off the bench, “But we will be, eventually.”

House looks uncertain, “You sure about that?”

With a backward glance, Chase says, “Yeah. I have faith.”

*

“You want access to my medical records - why?” Foreman asks in bafflement over the phone.

House replies, “I want you to go through his immunization history and compare it to yours. It’s been over ten days since he sneezed on you, and you aren’t showing any symptoms. Maybe there’s something you were vaccinated against that he wasn’t.”

Foreman pauses in reflection, “Could be they have different vaccination standards in Australia.”

“It’s worth a shot. What are you doing now? You’re not in the lab.”

“I’m looking into alternative treatments, since he hasn’t been showing improvement on the current course yet. In the meantime, I think we should start him on prednisone.”

“Prednisone? For what?”

“He has a high fever that won’t break. It’s going to start damaging his organs.”

“No,” House says adamantly, “We can’t give him steroids until we know what virus he has. It would weaken his immune system further, unless it’s part of a targeted regime.”

“We’d better hurry up and figure it out then, or his brain is going to fry.”

“Thanks for the positive outlook. Alright, stick with what you’re doing for a while. And get a resident to comb through the medical records and report back to you, so you can report back to me.”

“Okay, I’ll get on it. You talk to Cameron?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“And?”

“No change. He’s still checked out of reality.”

“I figured as much. Have you got the results back on his CSF?”

“Just now. He’s tested positive for encephalitis.”

“I figured that, too. Are you running the tox screens?”

“I will be. I’m running the strep test first. Just looking over CBC results now.”

Foreman’s interest is piqued, “They came back? How’s it looking?”

“Not good. His white count is falling faster than ever.”

“That really isn’t good. If it keeps dropping at this rate, we’ll have to move him into a cleanroom,” Foreman says, with a bleak sigh. 

“Maybe, but we’re not there yet. Let’s see if we can get out in front of it. See if you can find any alternative treatments to boost his immune system.”

“Alright, I will.” 

*

“I think I found something,” Foreman says excitedly into the phone.

“Something for what? Which problem?” House asks from the lab, where he’s running a tox screen on Chase’s saliva. He’s got Foreman on speaker.

“The fever, the cerebral edema, _and_ the immunosuppression.”

House pauses, putting down the swab. “What’s the catch?”

“It’s an experimental drug cocktail used to treat encephalitic flaviviruses. They’re running trials at Princeton General. It’s had overwhelmingly positive results.”

“Which means we’ll have to beg, barter and steal our way into getting it,” House concludes.

“Talk to Cuddy. She can get her hands on some, if you ask nicely.”

“Kiss her ass, you mean,” House corrects him.

Foreman asserts, “This could make all the difference. So, if you want to help Chase, pucker up.”

*

House enters Cuddy’s office to query, “You wouldn’t happen to have resumes for any intensivists lying around, would you?”

Cuddy looks up from her desk, where she’s been signing paperwork. She lowers her pen.

“How’s Chase?” she asks, folding her hands on the desktop.

House shrugs a shoulder. “He’s doing great – if by ‘great’, you mean dying, or on the road to becoming a vegetable. I figure I might want to line up a few interviewees, just in case.”

Cuddy gives him a look of pure sympathy. “What do you need? If there’s anything I can do – bring in a specialist, or fast-track procedures-”

House interrupts, “Glad you asked. I need you to get me some drugs.”

She frowns. “What drugs are we talking about?”

“They’re running trials on telaprevir and boceprevir at Princeton General. I know you can pull favors there, off the books.”

Her blue eyes widen. “You want me to use my connections to acquire an experimental drug cocktail used to treat dengue fever? House, no. It’s barely seen human testing. I want to help Chase, but maybe the best way I can do that is to prevent you from endangering his life with unsafe, untested medications.”

“I’m not endangering him,” House says rationally, “He’s already in danger. And I know this will help, so if we have to go through the usual song and dance, I’ll lead.

“In the clinical trials, a cocktail of telaprevir and boceprevir was proven to stimulate immune response, control fevers, and reduce brain inflammation in patients with dengue and other encephalitic flaviviruses. It’s also been effective on fever in patients with other acute viral diseases, like influenza A and hepatitis C. These aren’t some black market drugs; they’ve been FDA approved for further testing.” 

“Yes, and some of the potential side effects include heart rhythm issues, blood and lymph system disorders, kidney injuries, and liver failure!”

House snorts with derision, “Look on the back of any box in the pharmacy and you’ll see a similar list of possible side effects. He’s at greater risk of organ damage from the prolonged high fever than he is from some long-shot adverse reaction. The longer we leave it, the worse his chances become.”

“I can’t do it, House,” she says bluntly, “I have a big picture to think about, and killing off members of staff with unapproved treatments doesn’t fit into it.”

This tells House he’s getting somewhere; Cuddy hardening her stance usually comes just before she capitulates.

“Come on,” he cajoles her, taking a look down her blouse, “I know you’ve got a spine. How else would you hold up those bazongas?”

She rolls her eyes. “What makes you so sure this is going to work?”

“I’m not. But I like the odds.”

“Do you know how risky it is to use insufficiently tested trial drugs on a patient?” 

“I’ll get him to sign a waiver.”

Cuddy shakes her head briskly, “No, no paper trail. Let me think about this,” she worries at her bottom lip, “Say I did let you do this. Is he even mentally capable of giving consent?”

“Occasionally. I can already tell you that his answer is yes. He’s pretty fond of his brain function, and not being dead.”

Cuddy ponders; drumming her French-manicured fingertips on the desk, her mouth pinches in a frown.

“I’m concerned. Not just as Dean of Medicine, but as someone who cares about Chase. You’d better be right about this.”

House’s tone changes to something softer, almost imploring, “Just get me the damn drugs. He needs them.”

She takes a long breath, teetering back and forth in her decision. At last, she says, “Alright, I’ll make a call. But if anything bad comes of this, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Don’t worry,” House grins, “If anything goes wrong, I’ll make sure his dying words are ‘nobody sue the hospital’.”

*

“How’s our patient doing?” House stands with his cell to his ear, “Please tell me you haven’t suffocated him to death by over-fluffing his pillows.”

In a low-spirited tone, Cameron replies, “He’s really out of it. He was lucid when he woke up, then he just sort of glazed over and went back inside his head.”

“How’s the fever?”

She sighs gloomily, “Still way up. Poor thing, he’s so uncomfortable. I wish there was something more I could do for him.”

House had been hoping she’d say something like that.

“You want to make him feel better? Here’s your golden opportunity: hold his hand, spoon-feed him broth, bring him balloons and stuffed animals. Give him the full works.”

Cameron sounds insulted. “This isn’t funny, House. It’s scary. Please don’t make jokes.”

“I’m not joking. He needs someone who cares, so I sent in the best,” House pauses for effect before adding, “He doesn’t have anyone else.”

This produces the desired result of tugging at Cameron’s heartstrings. “Of course I want him to know I care! You should, too.”

 _That’s the spirit._ “You care enough for both of us. Now go on, smother away. Give him a peck on the forehead.”

Cameron’s indignation has simmered down to stoic resolve, “I’ll take care of him.”

“Is he awake?” House asks.

“Not at the moment.”

“Wake him up and get him to drink some water.”

“He’s miserable, House. He’s better off sleeping through it.”

“He’ll be even more miserable if he’s dehydrated. He’s sweating everything out.”

Cameron sighs, “Fine, I’ll try. Where are you?”

“Getting him some new meds. It’s a work in progress.”

“Are you actually coming back here? I don’t mind staying, if not.”

“I should be there to tag in less than an hour. Call me if anything changes.”

“Alright, I will.”

“Good. In the meantime, just do what you do best and make a fuss over him. And if you start crying, make sure to let your tears land on him, in case they have any special healing powers. Let me know if he starts to glow.”

*

Cameron watches Chase shift restlessly in his sleep, as he has been doing for most of the time since she’s been here. She wonders what dreams he’s having; they appear to be vivid. His eyes move rapidly back and forth behind his closed eyelids, and he occasionally murmurs something indecipherable.

She had been surprised when House had assigned her the task of sitting with Chase; it seemed very un-House-like to dedicate work hours to holding vigil at a patient’s bedside, ostensibly doing nothing proactive (at least by House’s usual standards). But as House had explained, Chase was useless as a source of information until they stabilized him, so closely monitoring his condition was a valid occupation, at least for now.

It’s almost comical how much Chase would dislike this if he were able to register what was happening. Upon meeting him several years ago, Cameron had learned three things about Chase right away: Chase hates being the center of attention, he hates being worried over, and he especially hates being taken care of. Cameron’s past efforts to offer him tea when he had a cold, or aspirin when he obviously had a headache, were met with flame-cheeked discomfiture and adamant insistence that he was fine, and didn’t need anything, thanks anyway though. 

It’s a testament to how oblivious he is that he allows her to help him sip water through a straw, and adjust his blankets whenever they bunch up from all his restive tossing and turning, or cover him back up when he kicks them off. When he’d startled awake once in a state of near-panic, he’d even let her run her fingers over his sweat-damp hair until his pulse stopped fluttering, and his eyes closed again.

And, despite House’s patronizing comments, she actually _had_ been holding Chase’s hand off and on. She hates seeing him like this, and wants to comfort him in whatever small ways she’s able to.

She wonders when he became so averse to people showing concern for him. She knows very little about Chase’s upbringing, although what she does know sounds fairly tragic. Still, she wonders if it had always been that way. Was his mother always an alcoholic? Was his father as cold and disinterested as Chase had implied? Was he neglected and unloved by both his parents, or were they just not demonstrative people? What would make a person shrink away from others caring about them?

Cameron doesn’t know; she’d had openly affectionate parents who hugged and kissed her on a daily basis, and told her they loved her every single night before she went to bed. Even now, they say it every time she talks to them over the phone. She’d always thought that’s just what parents did. It wasn’t until she was older that she realized that not everyone had a family like hers.

She wonders what new meds House is procuring. All the standard antipyretics (acetaminophen, NSAIDs, etc.) have failed to make Chase’s temperature so much as flinch from its chosen high setting. It’s worrying, and it fills her with a sense of foreboding. If he isn’t responding to those meds, which ones will he fail to respond to next? What if he stops responding altogether? His white count has been dropping steadily with every blood test, and what’s happening now has to be having a catastrophic effect on his already weakened immune system. If he has no immune system left to rally against the infection, it won’t matter what meds they give him. He’ll stop responding and-

Tears spring to her eyes unbidden, and she angrily wipes them away. She’d been reminded of a similar situation, with someone else close to her. But this isn’t about her; Chase is her friend, and the last thing he needs is to wake to the sight of her blubbering over him. She will be strong for him, as she’d been able to be before.

In an attempt to cool him down, she’d aimed a fan and set it to oscillate, not too close but enough to blow a breeze over him, making his hair stir slightly. She applies ice packs to his brow and the back of his neck; even if it doesn’t make a dent in his temperature, it should at least help make him a bit more comfortable.

He murmurs something so softly she can barely hear it. Listening closely, she realizes that he’s talking to House.

“No, Chase, House isn’t here. It’s Cameron,” she says, in case he can hear her.

At the sound of her voice, his long eyelashes flutter. His eyes open halfway and he looks at her with dim recognition. She hopes he’s too out of it to notice the teary redness in her eyes.

She thinks of all the chances she’s let pass to tell him that their friendship is important to her. She’s regretting those missed opportunities now. She vows that when he’s better, she’s going to make it clear that he’s not just a colleague to her, but a friend that she cares about, whether it makes him uncomfortable or not.

 _Nothing bad is going to happen to you_ , she thinks fiercely, _At least not on my watch._

"Everything is going to be okay,” she says aloud, “House is going to figure this out.”

*

Chase drifts in and out of consciousness. He keeps forgetting where he is and waking up surprised at the sight of the monitor, and the tubes coming out of his hands and nose.

Cameron is sitting with him, looking troubled. When he looks at her, she reacts by leaning forward, searching his eyes like she’s wondering if he’s actually in there. She brushes his bangs off his forehead.

“Hey,” she says softly, “I’m right here.”

He wonders why, not that he’s complaining. Cameron is his friend and his colleague, but he’d never expect her to stay with him while he’s incapable of forming a coherent thought, much less a sentence. He must be in pretty bad shape.

He manages, “Is House..?”

“House will be back soon. He’s getting you some new medication.”

Chase begins to cough painfully; he feels like someone laid a boulder on his chest. Cameron holds out a straw for him to sip through and suddenly he’s incredibly thirsty; he sucks down the entire cup of water in one go.

“Great, you did a really good job,” she praises him, putting the cup away. He wonders when drinking became an accomplishment. He’s still coughing, so she spoons him some sugary, overly mentholated cough medicine. Finally, he stops and she reaches out to take his hand, giving it a light squeeze. He’s both overwhelmed and comforted by the gesture. He closes his eyes.

The next time he opens them, it’s House standing over him. A rough palm is splayed across Chase’s forehead.

“You couldn’t just wait for the meds to turn up, could you?” House mutters irritably. He removes a thermometer from Chase’s mouth, scowls at it, and curses, “Damn it, Chase!”

Chase would apologize for whatever inconvenience he’s causing, but the words won’t reach his lips. He can’t speak, can’t even _think_ , can’t remember what he’s supposed to be sorry for anymore… House is shouting for a nurse. A nurse is layering ice packs onto him. This can’t be good. 

House is yelling at everyone, Chase included; he threatens to fire him if he has another seizure, to slap him if he doesn’t say something… He’s pacing around with his cane battering the floor, cussing out the cretins at Princeton General for whatever the hell is taking them so long. He sounds anxious, angry, and distraught.

Chase isn’t worried, now that House is here. He’ll find a way to fix what’s wrong, like he always does. He’s _House_.

*

He’s sitting on the sand in his bathing suit, playing by himself at the edge of the water. His crumbling sandcastle is next to him, being slowly eroded by the ebb and flow of the waves. He’s entertaining himself with a pail of water and several toys – all ocean creatures – that he keeps dropping into the bucket and then dumping back out on the sand.

He neatly arranges his sea creatures in a row – a great white shark, an octopus, a starfish, a whale, two crabs (one red and one blue), and a squid. He half-listens to his mother and his Auntie Tiff (who isn’t really his aunt, but his mother’s best friend) while they chat to each other nearby.

“You have to come! You _have_ to – it’s going to be amazing. I rented a room at the Crown above the casino and booked the spa for tomorrow morning, so it won’t even matter if we’re hungover – we can just sweat it out in the sauna.”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, Ev, it’s my twenty-fourth birthday! Please, please, please?”

“You know I want to, but I don’t have anyone to watch him.”

“Can’t you ask your Mum?”

“No, she and Dad went to Venice for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They’re not back until next week.”

“What about Rowan? Can’t he watch him for one night?”

She snorts bitterly. “Rowan’s useless. He doesn’t know how to feed him, or get him ready for bed, or put him to sleep.”

“It can’t be that hard.”

“You’d think so, but you’d be wrong. He’s probably working, anyway.” She looks over to where he’s refilling his pail at the edge of the waves. “Hey! That’s close enough!”

“Okay!” he calls back. He plops back down and begins burying his great white shark in shovelfuls of wet sand.

“Will you _please_ try and make it tonight? I never see you anymore.”

“You know where to find me. I’m at home mostly by myself, seven days a week.”

Putting the shovel down, he realizes that he doesn’t know where his blue crab is. He looks around the area where he’s sitting and kicks at the sand a little to see if it emerges from beneath it, but it doesn’t. He wanders over to his mother and Auntie Tiff, interrupting their conversation.

“I lost my sea creature,” he says forlornly.

“Okay baby, I’ll help you find it,” she scoops him up and sets him on her hip, scanning the sand, “Which one?”

“The blue crab.”

“Tiff, can you help me look for his blue crab?”

They locate the missing toy not far from his now-misshapen sandcastle. She crouches down and hands it to him. “There we go. Make sure you look after it now, or no bringing toys to the beach anymore.”

He smiles happily and drops it into the pail with the others. Then he tips them all out again and begins rearranging them. His mother and Auntie Tiff carry on talking. 

“Why don’t you bring him? We could let him sleep in the hotel room, and you could pop upstairs to check on him whenever you want.”

“No. If he woke up in a strange room and I wasn’t there, he’d be terrified.”

“Could you ask Deb to babysit?”

“Maybe… I don’t know if I want him over her house, though. She has that massive dog.”

“It’s just for one night - I only turn twenty-four once. Come on, Ev. I know you love being a Mum, but wouldn’t it be fun to act like a twenty-four year old once in a while?”

“I’m twenty-three. And plenty of women my age have kids.”

“But you get my point. You used to go out with us all the time. You must miss being able to, at least every now and then.”

Under a clump of black seaweed, he discovers a tiny white shell. He wanders over to his mother again, bestowing it to her. “Mummy, look what I found. This is for you.”

She takes it from him. “It’s beautiful, baby. Thank you so much. Can you go find one for Auntie Tiff?”

He finds another and hands it to Auntie Tiff, who’s pulling a pale yellow bottle out of her bag and setting it down on the towel, along with some plastic cups. His mother eyes it warily.

“Tiff, I can’t drink in the middle of the day. I have a three year old, and I still have to drive home.”

“One glass of wine isn’t going to kill you. It’s my birthday.”

“Fine. Just one.”

He toddles off to the edge of the water and sits down, letting foam lap the bottoms of his feet. He sees a small pink shell about a foot away beneath the water. It’s a pretty color, and he wants to give it to his mother.

He stands up and takes a step into the water. It will be easy to get if he reaches for it when the waves recede. He waits for a wave to pass, rushing around his ankles before being sucked back, and reaches down to snatch the shell. He’s got it in his hand when a slightly bigger wave hits, and he loses his footing.

He plunges face first into the water, cold saltwater rushing into his mouth and up his nose. He’s thrust forward, flailing his arms and reaching for purchase in the sand beneath him, almost finding it when he’s hit by another wave.

Then suddenly, he’s not underwater anymore. He’s coughing out salty seawater and his eyes and nostrils are burning. His mother is clutching him, standing knee-deep in the surf with her clothes and shoes on, screaming, “Oh my God, oh my God!” He’s so overwhelmed and jarred that he starts to cry.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. Mummy’s got you. You’re okay…” she says in a calm, soothing voice, but her whole body is shaking. Seeing her afraid frightens him even more, and he cries louder.

“Is he alright?” Auntie Tiff asks from the edge of the shore, looking a bit lost and unsure what to do.

His mother snaps, “He’s scared. He could have been dragged into the undertow. I wasn’t paying attention.” She’s gripping him so hard it’s almost painful, and he squirms uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cries, expecting her to yell at him.

“No, baby, Mummy’s sorry. I should have been watching you better.”

Turning to Auntie Tiff she says, “I need to go home. I can’t go out tonight, Tiff. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

They pack up to leave, and Auntie Tiff goes to her car. His mother carries him to theirs, wrapped in a towel. She places him in his car seat.

“We’re going home now, babe. We can do puzzles and read stories, and you can have ice cream after dinner. We’ll have a really fun night, just me and you.”

*

Chase wakes up freezing, sweating, and shaking uncontrollably. House is injecting something into his IV line. When he’s finished, he hovers over Chase to look down at him. His brow is creased in concentration, like he’s looking at something broken that he’s trying to figure out how to repair.

A sound attracts House’s attention, and he slips out of Chase’s sight-line. Chase hears voices, one of them House’s, talking heatedly in the corner. He recognizes the other voice; it sounds like Wilson.

House returns to loom over him again, wearing a deep frown and a pensive stare. He waves a hand slowly back and forth in front of Chase’s face, and Chase follows it with his eyes. House locks eyes with him and says,

“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

With that, House vanishes. Without any reason not to, Chase surrenders to the blackness at the edges of his consciousness, drifting back out. 


	13. Chapter 13

Foreman is packing up to go home for the night when House comes hobbling into the lounge, dressed in his outdoor coat with his blue backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s holding a lab results-sized piece of paper.

“You’re going home?” asks Foreman, a bit surprised. He’d been under the impression that House never left the hospital anymore.

“Yeah,” House hands Foreman the lab results, “Tox screen was clean. Any word back on the vaccination history?”

“No luck. He and I have had all the same vaccinations,” Foreman takes a fleeting look at the paper. He hands it back. “This is just the saliva test; it doesn’t mean much that he hasn’t done any cocaine in the past two weeks, since he’s been here most of that time. Do you have the results on the hair test?”

“I’m not running the hair test.”

Foreman stares at him. “House, if he has a problem –“

“He doesn’t. He and I talked about it. For once in your life, just trust me.”

Foreman is silent for a moment and then says, “Fine, we’ll talk about it later. We’ve got bigger problems at the moment. We can’t do anything with him until we get his fever under control. Is he still hallucinating?”

House nods, “Up a storm.”

Not good. “Did Cuddy get us the cocktail?”

“She did. I’ve started him on it already.”

“Good,” Foreman says and looks meditatively over at the whiteboard. The words ‘brain-swelling’ keep standing out; his specialty in neurology had driven home to him how bad they were. No matter how annoying Chase is, he doesn’t want him to lose brain function. Or die. He shakes away the thought, turning back to House.

“Once he’s stable, we need to come at this thing more aggressively.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“We should start by putting an ICP catheter in to monitor the swelling.”

House shakes his head, “We can’t. Too much risk of infection.”

“Well, we have to do something. Our current options, apart from medication, are to induce a coma to see if the swelling goes down on its own, or drill burr holes to release fluid and relieve the pressure.”

“Not an option, for the same reason we can’t put a catheter in. If we drill into his skull, we’ll be leaving out the welcome mat for more infections. He can’t take any more.”

“His body can’t take much more of this, either,” Foreman says bluntly, “If the drugs don’t work, we should induce a coma. Nothing invasive about that.”

“He’s got pneumonia. He’ll drown in his own fluid.”

“We can help control that. Being unconscious and on oxygen gives his body the best chance of fighting the infection.”

“We still need to monitor for neurological changes. We can’t if he’s out cold.”

“Then I guess we’re running out of options,” Foreman says, with a weary sigh.

House feels similarly frustrated. He bounces his cane against the floor.

“We’ll see how things go overnight. I’ll consider the coma if he’s not any better by tomorrow. Let’s let the drugs kick in. We’ll reevaluate in the morning.”

*

He's walking along an empty country road, getting rained on. His sodden rugby boots are squelching with each step he takes. Like the rest of him, they're covered in grass and mud.  
  
He's not entirely sure where he's going, but he knows what he's getting away from. He’d stormed off the field during practice and hasn’t slowed his pace since, trying not to think about the fact that he’s probably gotten himself kicked off the team.

The adrenaline has worn off and given way to the solemn monotony of walking; he's been doing so for twenty minutes in the direction of home, despite knowing that the house is locked and empty. He wonders if he might still be able to get in through the basement window, but he hasn't tried that since he was twelve or thirteen, and he's afraid he might get stuck now that he actually has shoulders.

He hears the car pulling up alongside him before it comes into view. His father's dark grey BMW slows to his walking pace, coasting along beside him and lowering its front passenger window.

"Robert," his father's voice is stern and measured, "get in the car."

Only his father calls him by his full name. It annoys him in the moment.

He keeps walking without looking up, or in his father’s direction. He keeps his eyes trained on the wet ground and his waterlogged boots as they continue to tramp through the puddles.  
  
"Robert!" his father sounds angry. _Good_ , he thinks, feeling a bit of mean satisfaction at making him lose his even temper, "Get in, now!"  
  
With an angry huff, he flings the car door open and gets inside, soaking his father's leather interior with water and mud.

Pulling over to the side of the road, his father pulls the handbrake and stares at him for a long moment before saying, "You hurt that other boy. His nose is broken. Did you know that?"  
  
He shakes his head minutely. He hadn't known, but he'd suspected from the amount of blood that had come gushing out.  
  
"His parents wanted to press charges. I spoke to them, and they are very angry. They say you attacked him for no reason. Is that true?"  
  
He doesn't reply, which is enough of a concession. Water is dripping from his hair and trickling off the tip of his nose. His knuckles are bleeding.  
  
"I told them that your mother is in the hospital and that she has been very ill. His parents were sympathetic, but their son is injured nonetheless."

He does feel bad. He doesn’t really know why he’d gotten so angry; it had happened all of a sudden, a bottomless rage overflowing, it’s only outlet seeming to be through his fists.

His father seems to sense his feelings of contrition because his tone changes from reproving to something more neutral.  
  
"I know you love your mother and that you're scared by what is happening to her. But this does not mean that you are allowed to hit other boys. You will apologize to that boy and his parents. Do you understand?"  
  
He looks over slowly and nods his head.

His father nods back, satisfied enough to relax his tone further. “Let me look at your hand."  
  
He reluctantly offers up his wounded hand. His index finger is blue and purple, swollen, and locked in a bent position. His father wastes no time in trying to raise it at the knuckle, causing him to hiss and try to wrench away his hand. His father is a strong man though, and keeps hold of it. He studies it clinically.  
  
"You broke your finger," he says at last, releasing it, "Nothing to do but wait for it to heal. Put ice on it when we get home."  
  
 _Not his home_. He doesn't want to go there. He knows the exact look that will come over Jeanette's face when he comes tracking mud through her kitchen and darkening her doorstep with his troubling behavior. He'd rather his father dropped him off at his own empty house and stopped pretending to be involved in his life.

They start to drive again; the car does a u-turn and begins heading in the direction of Jeanette’s house. Sitting there in his soggy, grass-stained uniform, he wishes his father would turn the heater on. He could ask, but he’d rather be cold and miserable.

Then suddenly, he’s hot.

“Chase?”

*

Wilson’s voice is floating up through his subconscious.

Chase opens his eyes. Wilson is standing over by the sink in the corner with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, wringing out a washcloth. He turns at the moaning sound that's coming out of Chase.

"Chase? Are you awake?"  
  
Chase moans a little louder for Wilson's benefit. Wilson quickly crosses the room and stands over him, his sensitive brown eyes full of worry.  
  
"Chase, can you please say something? I need to check your cognition. Just a word or two is fine."  
  
"House?" he croaks.

With a look of relief, Wilson relaxes his shoulders. "House is at home, sleeping. He'd been awake for over forty-eight hours and the only way he'd agree to leave is if someone stayed here to monitor you. Since tomorrow is my day off, I volunteered to do the night shift."  
  
Now Chase is sure that he's hallucinating again. Wilson is a figment of his imagination and is probably going to turn into a giant rabbit any moment now. Chase blinks and doesn't say anything.  
  
Wilson lays the damp cloth on Chase's forehead. It feels incredibly good, even if it is just happening in a dream.  
  
"Just so you know what's going on, we've started you on some new medication, which should begin to take effect soon. You should be feeling a lot better by tomorrow morning."  
  
Chase wishes this news made him feel better than it does. As much as he’s looking forward to not being delirious, the drugs they’ve been giving him are used to bring down fevers; they don't cure encephalitis, or whatever virus brought it on. He wants to know if the swelling has gone down. They should be scanning his head.

He doesn't tell Wilson this, knowing how futile it would be. Assuming this is reality (he’s starting to think so, from how awful he feels) he's obviously been in too pitiful a state to be taken for a head scan. Still, if the swelling in his brain has gotten worse, he’d rather know about it sooner than later.

As much as he’s grateful for it, he’s confused by Wilson’s presence. He finds it implausible that House would assign him an overnight babysitter when dozens of night-shift nurses are working feet away from his bed. It seems even more unlikely he’d be sending _Wilson_ to tend Chase’s fevered brow when he and House could be out bowling or something.

Had House really not been sleeping? If so, Chase doubts it has much, if anything, to do with him. House is a drug addict, which means lousy sleeping patterns (not that Chase is one to talk). If House’s insomnia is related to Chase’s condition, it’s his obsession with solving the puzzle of Chase’s illness that’s keeping him up at night.

“Were you dreaming about your Dad?” Wilson asks candidly. Wilson isn’t the type of person to shy away from personal topics; he thinks emotions are better dealt with when they’ve been drawn to the surface and purged. Being the opposite, Chase stays silent and pretends to be too insensible to reply.

Wilson continues, undeterred, “Nobody’s parents are perfect. Children expect them to be pillars of strength and good decision-making, but human beings are flawed. I knew your Dad, as a patient. He was proud of you, if that means anything.”

Chase is sure his father would have expressed as much to Wilson, for the sake of appearances if nothing else. Maybe it’s even true, to some extent. But it’s not enough to make Chase forgive him for dying without giving him the opportunity to say goodbye (or anything else for that matter), or for cutting him out of his will, or for a million other things that will remain forever unresolved.

Wilson reaches for the washcloth and uses it to dab at Chase’s cheeks and neck; wherever it touches feels extremely good until it moves again. The absence of it afterward is almost worse than having no respite at all, but he doesn’t want to make Wilson feel bad by saying so.

“You grew up Catholic, didn’t you?” Wilson holds the cloth to a spot below Chase’s ear, “Being a Jew myself, I can’t claim to have a dearth of knowledge on the finer points of the religion. But isn’t there something about forgiving the sins of others, in order for God to forgive you your own sins?”

Chase can’t help but let a dark expression pass over his face. The Bible is full of damnations and Catch-22’s, however you tried to live by it. He’d had to find that out himself the hard way.

“None of my business, I know,” Wilson adds lightly, “I don’t know what your relationship was like. I can’t say I approved of his decision not to tell you about his prognosis, but I guess we all have to deal with things in our own way.”

Chase shuts his eyes, hoping that this is the end of Wilson’s well-intentioned pep-talk. The truth is, over the course of a few brief appointments, Wilson has spent more time with Chase’s father than Chase has in the past five years. It’s not because they’d fallen out or argued; they’ve just never had much to say to each other.

The shadow of Rowan Chase falls over him every now and again, when he spots one of his books on a shelf in different offices around the hospital, or on the odd occasion when other doctors make the connection from his last name and infer how great it must be to be the son of such a brilliant doctor. Chase always lets them think it is, not wanting to disappoint them.

He remembers what he’d told the kid who was his patient the last time he’d seen his father, when House had forced them to work the case together. The kid’s father had been a jerk and a liar, and the kid had finally noticed.

_He’s your Dad. It doesn’t matter what he does. You’re gonna love him._

Before his father had gotten into the cab to leave the last time Chase would ever see him, he’d offered Chase a handshake that Chase transformed into a clumsy hug. For a few seconds, he held Chase closer than he had since Chase was a little boy. Then he’d let go, and left to catch his flight.

Chase watched the cab pull away and disappear around a corner before he started walking again in the opposite direction, back to his own life. In retrospect, he figures that this was as good a note as any for them to leave it on.

*

Part of the reason that House hasn’t been sleeping is because of the dreams.

It only seems to happen when he’s at home – yet another reason he’s been avoiding coming back here.

The first dream had seemed like a fluke, the result of playing around too giddily with Chase’s handcuffs – it felt like karma coming back to bite House in the ass.

First he’d dreamt about Chase in the leather pants, holding him down and surprising the crap out of him with his easy ability to render House both captive and speechless. Things had just been getting interesting when House awoke with a start. He’d thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t. The next dream was Chase begging House to punish him for lying about his naughty, naughty behavior; Chase had come to him in his office and knelt imploringly at his feet, with hands on either of House’s thighs. He’d let House shove his face into his crotch and began unzipping House’s pants, dipping his blond head down, and then- House woke up.

In another dream, he’d dragged Chase into a supply closet, kissing him frantically and knocking boxes of latex gloves and bandages off the shelves. He’d wriggled Chase’s ugly tie off over his head and ripped open his hideous paisley shirt, sending buttons scattering across the floor. Chase had gone for House’s zipper – then, House woke up.

Now every time House dozes off in his apartment, he’s pressing Chase against a wall, or throwing him onto his desk, sweeping its surface clean with a swipe of his arm. It’s like some sort of sick joke the universe is playing on him that Chase is lying helpless in the hospital, and all House’s subconscious can think of is screwing his brains out. The universe is evil and vindictive and, if House actually believed in karma, he’d have to admit that he probably had this coming. He can’t reconcile the dreams with reality, but he hasn’t been able to make them stop. 

Now he’s fallen asleep again and Chase is sitting in his living room, wearing a pair of green scrubs. He’s looking expectantly at House, as though waiting for him to make the first move. House tries to ignore him.

“I know you’re not really here,” he says finally.

Chase lifts his legs onto the couch, stretching out with his arms behind his head. “So? That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me. I’m better conversation than the actual Chase, at the moment.”

“I’m trying to get a restful sleep, and I can’t do it with you staring at me. Now get lost. Let me go back to dreaming about Carmen Electra.”

Chase looks at him levelly, “That’s not how this works.”

House snorts in resentment, “Chase is the one who can’t control his dreams. You’re just an annoying blond figment of my imagination. I’m the one calling the shots.”

Chase looks amused, “ _Now_ you’re getting it. You can’t tell me to go away, but you _can_ tell me what to do.” 

“You’re not real. What do I care what you do?”

Chase examines his fingernails, “If you know I’m not real, then it doesn’t matter what you do with me, does it? You could tell me to go make you a cheeseburger and I’d do it, right?”

“Go make me a cheeseburger.”

Chase smiles wryly, “No.”

House huffs, “Well, what good are you, if you don’t listen to what I say?”

“Depends what you want me to do,” Chase replies coyly.

“Aren’t dreams supposed to be about wish fulfillment? I wish for a cheeseburger, but you’re not dishing one up. What kind of fantasy figure are you?”

“This isn’t _I Dream of Jeannie_. I’m not here to grant you wishes,” Chase replies huffily, “This _is_ a fantasy, though. Maybe you could get more creative than asking me to cook.”

“Fine. You want me to get creative?” House spits out, “Wear that stupid outfit you wore to the Christmas party that time.”

Chase looks flummoxed, “What – the grey suit with the notch lapel? I bought that for a funeral.”

“So what? It looked nice.”

“The jacket shrunk at the dry-cleaners, it doesn’t even fit!”

“It looked like it fit pretty well to me.”

“Fine,” Chase mutters; in the next second, he’s wearing the only nice outfit that House has ever seen him wear. “So. Why this?”

“You looked good that night,” House shrugs. He can be honest – he’s talking to a figment of his own subconscious, after all, “And we had that little moment on the balcony, and earlier, under the mistletoe. You were mortified when I actually planted one on you.”

“Stupid Foreman,” Chase mumbles, embarrassed all over again, "He's an ass when he's drunk."

“I can’t resist a dare,” House singsongs in amusement at Chase’s discomfort, “You blushed every time I looked at you for a week after that.”

“Did you enjoy doing it?” Chase looks up, challenging him.

“Of course I enjoyed it. You’re hot.”

“Then what’s the problem with me being here? You’re attracted to me, I’m here to throw myself at you. I don’t see the issue.”

“Well, for starters, your living, breathing counterpart is currently half-dead in the hospital, so that’s kind of killing my boner. The other thing is—” House trails off.

“What?” Chase prompts him.

“Never mind.”

Chase rolls his eyes. “I’m you, remember? Your subconscious. It doesn’t matter what you say to me.”

“Fine! You’re not…” House feels like kicking him for making him say this, “You’re not _him_.”

One of Chase’s eyebrows rises, “That’s what you want?”

“I… no, I don’t want Chase. I just want his stupid dream lookalike to leave me alone.”

Chase shrugs, “Then maybe you should stop thinking about me so much.”

“I would if you’d go away.”

“Look, why don’t you just get it out of your system. It’s like anything else. Say you get a craving for pistachio ice cream. You could either ignore it and let it bother you, or go to the store and buy three tubs and eat it until you’re sick of it.”

House wrinkles his nose, “Pistachio ice cream is gross.”

“It’s an example. I’m just saying, the more you ignore whatever it is you feel about the real Chase, the more you’re going to think about it, and the worse it becomes. So here I am: three tubs of pistachio ice cream. Get sick of me so you don’t keep thinking about him.”

House has to admit, he makes a compelling argument. “Okay, fine. Where should we start?”

“Let’s start at the party. You were checking me out, and you kissed me under the mistletoe. Anything else you wanted to do?”

“We were out on the balcony afterwards. I’d had a few eggnogs and you were standing out there by yourself, freezing your ass off. I brought you a drink and you didn’t drink it.”

“I don’t really drink,” Chase reminds him.

“Yeah, I know that now. Then, I thought you were just being a girl who can’t hold her alcohol.”

“Why go back to that moment?”

“I had this stupid idea that I was actually going to kiss you.”

“Really?”

“I was drunk. I told you it was stupid.”

“Why did you want to?”

“I don’t know… It felt like a good idea after my sixth eggnog.”

“No deeper reason?”

“No. If you’re trying to get me to profess my secret undying love, you’re shit out of luck.”

“Hold on a second,” Dream-Chase interrupts.

Suddenly, they’re not in House’s living room anymore. They’re dressed in suits and House is wearing a smart wool overcoat, standing out on the hotel balcony. Frank Sinatra is singing ‘Merry Little Christmas’ inside on the stereo. A few stray snowflakes are fluttering down, lit by the glimmer of white Christmas lights and a too-small outdoor heater.

“How’s this?” Chase looks pleased with himself.

House is mildly impressed, “Accurate.”

Chase nods, then turns away from him and walks over to lean against the railing.

After a minute of Chase staring off at the city lights like he’s forgotten that House is behind him, House gets impatient. “Now what?”

Chase turns around, looking surprised to see him, “House. Hi.”

“Yeah, hi. What are we doing?”

Chase furrows his brow, “Uh… we’re at the Christmas party, standing outside?”

 _Okaaay…_ Now House can see what the game is. He’s pretending to be the _real_ Chase, at the _real_ party.

“House?” Chase says cautiously.

“Oh, stop it!” House groans.

“Stop what?” Chase looks confused.

“You know what. This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“House, are you drunk? Do you need a ride home, or…?”

“Fine. If this is how you want to play it, let’s play. Okay, Chase,” he moves closer, “I am drunk. Drunk as a skunk, in fact. The eggnog is delicious, and so are you in that outfit. Wanna make out?”

Chase backs away a step or two, “I think you might want to call it a night. I can give you a ride or call you a cab. Or are you getting a ride with Wilson?”

“Depends. How big is your back seat?”

Chase rolls his eyes, “I’ll go find Wilson.”

He moves toward the door, but House stops him, “Wait. Don’t go anywhere. I’m not _that_ drunk.”

Chase looks down at his arm where House is holding it. He looks House over suspiciously and seems to relax a bit. “Alright. Is there something I can do for you? If it’s mistletoe again, I’m unavailable.”

House hands him a cup he’s holding, “I brought you eggnog. Merry Christmas.”

Taking it with a miffed look, Chase sets it down on the railing. “Thanks. But isn’t ‘bah, humbug’ your usual line?”

“Can’t a boss just want to share a moment with his employee at Christmas? Reflect on the year, and the spirit of the holidays and whatnot?”

“Can we reflect faster? I’m freezing, I was about to go back inside,” Chase says, shuffling uncomfortably. The idiot never seems to dress warmly enough - probably an Australian thing.

House sighs. He shrugs out of his coat and offers it, “Here, wear mine. I’m wearing my beer jacket.”

Chase stares at it, “No, that’s alright. I have one in the cloakroom.”

“The cloakroom’s downstairs. Just take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, I just said so twice! Put it on, you’re making me feel cold just looking at you.”

Chase snatches it from him and puts it on, “Thanks.”

“Anyway, as I was saying: the spirit of Christmas. What do you Catholics do to celebrate?”

“Midnight mass. Christmas Day mass. Lots of going to church.”

“Anything else?”

Chase pokes his lip out in thought, “We always had a Nativity scene. And an advent wreath.”

“You mean an advent calendar?”

“No, a wreath. Literally a round evergreen wreath, with four candles on top of it.”

“What’s it for?”

“The candles represent the four weeks of advent, and you’re supposed to light a candle each Sunday. Three candles are purple, and one is pink. The first purple candle symbolizes hope - it’s called the Prophecy Candle. The second is called the Bethlehem Candle, and it symbolizes faith. The third is pink and it symbolizes joy – it’s called the Sheppard’s Candle. The final candle is purple and it symbolizes peace – it’s called the Angel’s Candle. It’s supposed to remind you of the message of the angels: Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”

House considers this and replies, “I like my advent calendar. It gives me chocolate every day for a month.”

Chase gives him a look of skepticism, “You get an advent calendar? You hate religion. And Christmas.”

“But I do love chocolate,” House says with a wink, “Besides, Christmas isn’t all bad. I get to drink boozy eggnog and kiss cute wombats under the mistletoe.”

Chase blushes, “Let’s not make that a holiday tradition. At least not in front of the entire hospital staff.”

“I could get a personal sprig for the office,” House offers.

“Sure. I’d love to make out with you in front of Cameron and Foreman, during work hours.”

“What if I put one over the door to my apartment?” House suggests half-jokingly. He’s definitely mostly joking.

Chase’s blush deepens, “You drank a lot of eggnog…”

Suddenly, the sliding glass door opens, and Wilson is poking his head out. “House! We’re leaving early, remember? You promised if I agreed to be the designated driver, you’d leave at eleven o’clock. It’s eleven!”

“Get out of here Wilson! This is a dream and you’re ruining it, just like you ruined the actual night! I’m gonna make out with Chase!” House yells. Wilson stares at him perplexedly for several seconds and then retreats, sliding the door shut behind him.

He turns back to Chase, “You were saying?”

Chase fidgets, “I was saying that you had a bit too much to drink. Maybe we should go back inside.”

House’s ears perk up, “Wait! Listen.”

Chase goes quiet, and through the doors they hear the opening to ‘Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl, playing on the stereo inside.

“This is my favorite Christmas song,” House declares.

Chase nods, “It’s a good song. Not very Christmassy, but good.”

“Why isn’t it Christmassy? It’s about Christmas. And it’s romantic!”

Chase sighs wearily, “You _would_ think this is romantic. It’s two people yelling about how much they hate each other for most of the song.”

House grins, “Sometimes it’s a thin line. They love each other, really.”

There’s a dusting of snowflakes forming on the shoulders of their coats; Chase has one stuck to his eyelash for a second before it evaporates. Suddenly, they’ve run out of things to say to each other, listening to the song play instead.

Because this is a dream that’s also a memory up to this point, House looks Chase square in the eyes, trying to gauge where his head is at. He’s got that squirrelly look that he gets when House makes innuendos about his pretty mouth. House leans in close, watching him grow even squirmier. He decides if Chase is this nervous at his proximity, it’s either because he wants House to kiss him, or he doesn’t. There’s only one way to find out.

Chase’s cheeks are pink from the cold. House lays his hands on either side of them and tilts his head up, leaning down to press his lips against Chase’s. Chase’s nose is cold, and his lips are warm and soft. The kiss is slow and lingering, maybe the gentlest kiss House has ever had. He allows a hand to slide up to the back of Chase’s head, into his hair. Chase sighs into the kiss, pressing his body closer and twining his arms around House’s shoulders.

House pulls back, looking into Chase’s eyes. “I wish you were real,” he says sadly.

Chase just looks at him, as though the words don’t register. He clings to House’s middle, drawing warmth from him. Gently, House untangles himself and steps back.

“You’re leaving?” Chase says quietly, disappointed.

House takes one of Chase’s hands and squeezes it, “I can’t stay. You… the _real_ Chase, is sick, and he needs me.”

Chase fingers a button on the front of House’s dress shirt, “You could stay a little longer…”

House shakes his head, “No. You’re dying, and I have to save you. It’s time to wake up.”

Chase nods reluctantly, “Okay. Maybe I’ll see you again soon?”

House smirks, “In your dreams, wombat.”

The next thing he knows, House is staring up at his bedroom ceiling. He rolls out of bed to get ready for work. 


	14. Chapter 14

“You’re here early,” remarks Foreman, as House enters the office and hangs up his coat.

“I want to see if the treatment is working,” House replies, dropping his bag on the desk, “I’m heading downstairs to check on him.”

“We’ll go with you,” Cameron offers, standing from her seat at the table.

House holds up a hand, “Not right now. Your brother is sick, and Daddy has a headache. You two go play in your rooms.”

“By which you mean?” Foreman prompts.

“Find something to do, and give me some time with him first.”

“We should be privy to his condition if you want us to come up with anything useful.”

“Go buy me a sandwich; that would be useful. I don’t care what you do, just do it somewhere I’m not. I’ll call you down when I’m ready.”

House collects his medical bag and prepares to leave, while Cameron rocks on her heels as though struggling not to follow him, and Foreman looks on disapprovingly.

“Strep test was negative,” Foreman throws out, “He doesn’t have scarlet fever.”

House isn’t surprised; it had been a long shot, anyway. “One more to cross off the list, then.”

“It’s getting to be a pretty long list.”

“Then do your jobs, and come up with something better,” House says brusquely as he departs for the ICU.

*

Opening his eyes, Chase squints against the daylight coming in through the window. For the first time in days, he’s wide awake and clearheaded. There isn’t any pain or discomfort, just a strangely hollowed-out feeling that reminds him of coming off anesthesia after he’d been operated on as a kid.

Beside him, a voice booms, “Sleeping Beauty has awakened!”

House is sitting there, holding his little handheld television. From the sounds of things, someone called Xavier just found out he’s the father of triplets.

“Took you nearly the full hundred years,” House tuts, “Do you know how many times I’ve had to kiss you?”

Chase attempts to sit, and gets a cane to the chest. “Ow!”

“Hold your horses, Princess! No need to get up just yet.”

Chase forcefully shoves away the rubber cane-end, only to have it jab at him again even harder. Cursing, he lies back against the pillows, and House removes his cane.

“You’re looking pretty spritely compared to the past few days,” House observes with a nod of satisfaction. “You’re not even mistaking me for one of your dead parents.”

Chase gives him an acid look, “I want a head CT.”

“All in good time,” House says in an unhurried tone. He puts down the television and switches it off. “First we need to make sure you can remember your ABC’s, and how to count to ten.”

“My cognition’s fine,” Chase snaps in annoyance, “I still remember what an ass you are, if that helps.”

House smiles delightedly, “Looks like _someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Your LP came back positive for encephalitis, by the way.”

“That’s why I want a head CT. I’ll recite the alphabet for you on the way to the scan room.”

“First things first. What’s your name?”

“Are you _kidding_?”

“Nope. First and last name. Or was that one too tough? We could go straight to date of birth.”

With a sudden burst of anger, Chase throws back his blanket and pulls the nasal cannula out. It wipes the smirk off of House’s face.

“I’m not doing this. I’ll book the room myself if you won’t,” Chase mutters, “I’m not just going to lie here doing nothing while my brain turns to soup.”

“Laying there doing nothing is _exactly_ what you’re going to do!” House commands, pissed off, “Now stick that thing back in your nose and lie down!”

When Chase doesn’t obey, House moves to smack him with his cane again, but this time Chase is expecting it. He wrenches the cane away and tosses it over the side of the bed. Then he pinches the IV catheter attached to his right hand and rips it out.

House is cursing and shouting at him, but Chase ignores him. He pulls out the other catheter from his left hand and throws his legs over the side of the bed. The monitor sensors tug at him; he grabs the wires where they meet and tears them off a clump. House is moving to grab him and force him back down, but Chase is naturally stronger and fueled by adrenaline; he pushes House out of the way and gets out of bed.

He doesn’t get more than a foot or two before the floor suddenly sinks beneath him. His legs buckle and he pitches forward to land painfully on his hands and knees.

He hears House holler, “We need some help in here!”

Then House is crouched next to him, a wild, probing look in his eyes. He looks almost panicked.

“You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot…”

A couple of nurses have already charged over after hearing the monitor flat-line when Chase had ripped off the sensors. Sandy is one of them, and the other is a stocky older nurse that Chase doesn’t know. 

Sandy looks shocked. “Doctor Chase! Are you alright?”

“Dizzy,” he pants, as the patterns on the tiles begin to swirl. He swallows back a wave of nausea.

“He’s fine,” House mutters, having recovered, “Just suffering from an episode of acute stupidity, is all.”

“Let’s get you back into bed,” Sandy says gently, and she and the other nurse pick him up off the floor.

Ten minutes later, Chase is reattached to all his tubes and sensors and has been thoroughly scolded and fussed over. They’ve had to clean off wounds on the backs of his hands from where he’d roughly torn the needles out, and find new places to reinsert the IV catheters. They remove a feeding tube from his nose that had been spared because it wasn’t attached to machines, and he hadn’t realized it was there.

Chase has recovered from his dizzy spell, but he milks it a little in an attempt to keep House from exploding at him the moment the nurses are gone. Sandy brings him a bottle of orange juice and a bowl of oatmeal with maple syrup to get his blood sugar up.

House stands silently against the wall throughout the proceedings, twirling his cane and ignoring them. The only sign that he’s possibly paying attention is when he snorts while Sandy fluffs up Chase’s pillow and tucks the blankets around him.

When the nurses are gone, House lowers his cane-end to the floor. “That was quite the little show you put on just now.”

Chase can’t get the cap off his orange juice. His fingers are clumsy, probably from all the pain medication.

After a few more failed attempts, House grabs it and twists the cap off. When Chase goes to take it back, House pulls it just out of reach.

“Promise never to do that again or I’m pouring this over your head.”

With a guilty nod, Chase says, “I’m sorry. I promise.”

House hands him back the bottle and, with a wary look, he says, “I’ll book you the scanner, if it’s going to keep you from getting hysterical. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, though. I doubt that we’re going to see a miraculous recovery just yet.”

“I understand that. I just need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Chase drinks his juice and eats his oatmeal in silence. House goes back to watching television.

When Chase is finished, House looks up and assesses how he’s done with his food. “Looks like you don’t need to be tube-fed anymore. Think you’ll manage to keep it down?”

Chase’s stomach is still a bit delicate, but he doesn’t feel sick. “I think so.”

“I actually do still need to test your cognitive function,” House reminds him, “You may not remember, but you’ve been in a pretty scary state these past few days.”

Chase’s mind catches on House’s turn of phrase. ‘Scary’ isn’t a word House uses to describe his patients’ illnesses; ‘interesting’ or ‘fascinating’ or ‘cool’, but not scary – that would imply something about House that doesn’t jive with his persona, like the fact that he might actually care.

If House picks up on his slip of the tongue, he doesn’t draw attention to it by letting it show on his face.

Chase is emboldened enough to mention, “Wilson says that you haven’t been sleeping.”

“I’ve been binge-watching _Desperate Housewives_. That wacky Susan…”

Chase smiles to himself. “He said you asked him to look after me last night.”

“He’s been reading Victorian romance novels. I think he identifies with the heroines. I figured he could use the brow-bathing and melodrama to live out his fantasies.”

Chase fixes him with a smug, knowing grin. House blocks him from sight with the television.

“Oh, wipe that stupid look off your face. I liked you better when you were delirious. Now, full name. First and last.”

“Robert Chase…”

*

“Vitals are looking better,” Foreman comes around the side of the bed to look at the monitor approvingly. “Heart rate’s down, blood pressure’s up. Fever’s way down.”

House turns to Chase. “Congrats – you’re officially our only patient. Foreman’s actually interested in you now.”

They’re gathered in Chase’s room in the ICU. At House’s behest, Cameron and Foreman had lugged the new whiteboard down there, annoying the nurses who had to navigate their way around it. House stands in front of it, marker raised in preparation.

“Alright, diseases that cause encephalitis – Go.”

“We know it’s viral,” Foreman begins, “The most common cause is herpes-simplex. Varicella-zoster, measles, mumps, rubella, and chickenpox are some of the other usual suspects.”

“Nearly all of which present with a rash,” Cameron notes, “Chase doesn’t have one.” He didn’t - he’d been examined from head to toe.

“Let’s cross off all the ones that do, and see what we’re left with,” House draws a line through varicella-zoster, measles, mumps, rubella, and chickenpox. He hesitates over herpes-simplex.

“It could have been brought on by an arbovirus, like West Nile,” Cameron puts forward.

“West Nile isn’t prevalent in Australia,” Chase interrupts. “But it could be Kunjin’s or Murray Valley Encephalitis. Both are native to Australia and come from mosquitoes. I got bitten a few times while I was there.”

House adds both conditions to the board and jots West Nile down with a question mark next to it. What he’s currently left with is herpes-simplex, Kunjin’s, and MVE.

“Kunjin’s usually presents with a rash,” Foreman rebuts.

Chase shrugs. “Not always.”

House doesn’t cross it off, but he makes a carrot note that says “no rash” beside it.

“How about plain old influenza? Did you get the flu shot this year?” Foreman asks. Chase guiltily shakes his head no.

“The NP test came back negative for the flu,” Cameron reminds them.

“For Influenza A. There are other strains we haven’t checked for.”

“An enterovirus would be more likely to lead to a brain infection,” Chase puts forth, “Echovirus fits.”

“Let’s do blood tests for herpes-simplex, Kunjin’s, and MVE, and run RT-PCRs for influenza and echovirus,” House decides. 

Given their tasks, Cameron leaves to retrieve swabs and Foreman prepares a needle and syringe. Watching him, Chase emits an elaborate groan.

“Go on,” Chase dutifully holds out his arm which, from the elbow down, is littered with small bruises of various shades of purple, yellow and green along the path of his vein. “I’m starting to feel like a pincushion.”

“If you’re going to be a baby about it, I’ll starting bringing you lollipops,” Foreman says dryly, as the needle pierces Chase’s skin.

“That would be nice,” says Chase, actually meaning it.

“Why didn’t you cross off herpes-simplex?” Foreman asks House, with a glance at the whiteboard, “If it was active enough to cause encephalitis, he’d have open sores.”

“It could have been active earlier, and gone back into remission.”

“I don’t have herpes,” Chase asserts defensively, “I’d have noticed. And I get tested.”

House shrugs, “As much as I’d love to take you at your word, I’ll take my facts from a current blood test. Herpes can lay dormant with no outward presentation for long periods. Besides, you get up to some pretty freaky stuff in the sack.” 

Foreman rebuffs, “It can transmit through simple contact, like sharing a water bottle or a spoon. It doesn’t make any difference that he’s doing weird stuff in bed.”

“I know. I just like picturing it.”

“Cheers, both of you,” Chase mutters under his breath, “Why don’t you just run a full STD panel and be done with it?”

“Maybe later,” Foreman seals the sample bag and stands, “Hopefully for you, the test will come back negative. Either way, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Before they can leave, Chase asks, “Have you heard anything back on the…uh?”

He pauses with the words at the tip of his tongue. He knows exactly what he’s trying to say, but for some reason the words he’s looking for are just beyond his grasp. It’s the thing that they did earlier, that captures images of what’s going on inside his head. But what the hell is it called?

“…CT scans?” Foreman finishes for him.

“Yeah, sorry. Thanks,” Chase replies, feeling like an idiot. Due to lack of time and manpower, they’d had to delegate the scans to Radiology.

“Not yet. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything,” Foreman assures him.

*

Alone in his office, House is solemnly playing with his novelty tennis ball when Foreman appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“I know you saw what I saw, back there.”

House catches the ball and pauses. “Saw what?”

“You know what. He forgot what he was trying to say.” 

House is still and quiet for a moment, then asks, “Is that it?” He tosses the ball again.

Foreman’s eyes follow as the ball goes up and down. He frowns, looking deeply troubled. “Yeah, that’s it.”

House tosses it a little higher, watching it instead of Foreman. “So he forgot a word or two. I once spent twenty minutes trying to remember the word ‘guacamole’. It happens.”

Foreman fixes him with a reproachful look. “That’s the stance you’re taking? Chase is a lot of things, but forgetful isn’t one of them.”

“He’s high as a kite on painkillers, and he’s been delirious for the better part of three days. He was still making better suggestions than you were, back in the differential. Maybe you should cut him some slack.”

“I heard he flipped out this morning and ripped all his tubes out. Were you ever planning to mention that?”

House groans, “You want to make a thing out of that, too?”

“Sudden aggression,” Foreman intones, “Mood swings. Does that seem like Chase to you? Because I don’t think it does. He’s one of the most repressed people I’ve ever met.”

“He got out of bed and fell on his ass. It’s not like he turned into the Hulk.”

Foreman purses his lips. “His brain isn’t healthy, House. When a part of the body is under attack, it shows symptoms.”

Putting the ball down, House swivels his chair in Foreman’s direction. “Speaking of his brain, did you get the CT results I asked for?”

“Yeah, and it’s not good,” Foreman passes over the folder he’s carrying, “The swelling is just as bad, if not worse. He’s not responding to treatment for the inflammation.”

House lays the scans on the desk, fanning them out like a hand of cards. He rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers in front of his face. “Then we’ll try something else. Take him off the acyclovir and start him on foscarnet, and double the dose of the anti-inflammatories.”

“I don’t think we should take him off the acyclovir. It’s the better medication.”

House leans back in his chair, looking up at Foreman. “Well, it’s not working. What do you propose we do?”

“I don’t know,” Foreman admits, “We’re stuck in a loop. He can’t battle off infections because his immune system is too compromised, which means the infections keep killing off more and more of whatever white cells he has left. Pretty soon he’s not going to be able to respond to medication at all, if we don’t put him on a targeted treatment to tackle the virus.”

“Then we’re staying here until we figure it out. Go find Cameron. And stop by the cafeteria on the way back and pick up some espressos. This could take a while.”

As soon as Foreman is out the door and has disappeared around the corner, House hurls the ball at the wall across from him, hard enough that it bounces back. He catches it.

*

Cameron and Foreman are slouched around the conference table, drinking coffee at twelve-thirty at night. Both of them are visibly tired, with bags under their eyes. House, who’s perched in his desk-chair and spinning his cane like a marching baton, is in worse shape than either of them, but he’s still raring to go.

“We’ve been through every virus with encephalopathy that I can think of,” Foreman says morosely. “I’m starting to run out of steam for today.”

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Cameron acknowledges. “At least then we’ll be fresh for tomorrow morning.”

“Fine, you wimps,” House mutters, not bothering to turn around, “Go take bubble baths and get your full eight hours.”

“You should go home, too,” Cameron pleads with him earnestly. “You need sleep even more than we do.”

“Sleep is for the weak. Now, go on. Beat it.”

With slight hesitation, Cameron and Foreman stand and put on their coats. House doesn’t bother to watch them go.

Left alone, House examines the whiteboard. He decides to go back over things they’ve tested for, that have come back negative. The list is long; they’ve run a lot of tests, which Chase’s bruised arms and retreating veins can attest to. He wonders if there’s anything he should retest for, in case they had a false-negative.

Everything that Chase had tested negative for, House has drawn a line through. The tests that came back positive have been underlined (this doesn’t include the tests they’re running now). The list, in order of testing, reads:

_- ~~RSV~~_

_- ~~Influenza A~~_

_- ~~Mononucleosis~~_

_- ~~Legionnaire’s Disease~~_

_- ~~Strep Throat~~_

_- ~~HIV~~_

_- ~~Gonorrhea~~_

_- ~~Hepatitis C~~_

_- Viral Pneumonia_

_- ~~CMV~~_

_- ~~SARS~~_

_- ~~Kidney Infection~~_

_- ~~Delerium Tremens/ Liver Failure~~_

_- Encephalitis_

_~~-Scarlet Fever~~ _

House pores over the list carefully, transposing the latest symptoms over earlier diagnoses in his head. The only conditions on the list that could lead to encephalitis were RSV, mono, influenza, CMV, scarlet fever, and certain strains of strep.

Strep is off the table despite Chase’s predisposition to it, since House himself had done the rapid test twice and the more conclusive throat culture, all of which came back negative. The same results apply to scarlet fever.

RSV could still fit, especially with the earlier symptoms; House decides that he will double-check the head scans for any telltale patterns before rerunning the test.

He briefly considers retesting for mono despite Chase’s conviction that he doesn’t have it and floats the idea of also testing for the closely related Epstein-Barr virus. Both cause an overproduction of white blood cells, however, where Chase has the opposite. There’s still CMV, but the symptoms have never really fit that well, and if he had it he’d be having vision problems by now.

House also jots down ‘tick-borne diseases’ – Foreman’s cemetery-related suggestion suddenly isn’t sounding so bad now, in light of Chase’s current condition. Spotted Fever from the Victoria region of Australia is the most likely tick-related culprit. But no indicative eschar had been discovered during Chase’s rash examination, so House hesitantly crosses it out.

He looks at the symptoms from Chase’s self-hypnosis session; sunburn, rash, and sore throat. It wasn’t likely that they amounted to anything, but he’s still reluctant to cross them off. He certainly didn’t expect all three symptoms to come into play, but if even one of them held any significance, he doesn’t want to discard them without giving it more thought. 

Wracking his brain for other possible causes, House creases his brow in deliberation.

Chase’s stepmom had mentioned that Chase’s mother had bipolar disorder, which could be passed on genetically; it seems irrelevant to Chase’s situation, but House wonders if it might explain the reckless behavior that preceded him getting sick. Illegal drug use, dangerous sex games, dead parents… Chase is a bundle of issues if ever there was one, and Mommy issues seem to be at the top of the list. Still, House decides it’s unlikely that he’s bipolar; for all the sad things that have happened to him in his life, Chase has never come across as being depressed. No manic episodes to speak of, either, and nothing in his medical files. House doesn’t bother writing it down, but he thinks about it.

What if cocaine use has something to do with it? House was taking him at his word that it had only been one slip-up. But, from Foreman’s phone call, it sounds like he may have had a genuine habit at some point. House had spared him the hair test to ensure that Chase got to keep his job, but what if he’d been lying and he still had a problem? What if the lies didn’t end there? He could be on all sorts of different drugs, and they wouldn’t know – they haven’t run a complete tox screen, and House won’t be able to without revealing a positive result for cocaine.

And what about this ‘friend’ of Chase’s, the one who enjoys strangling his sexual partners on a whim? House assumes it’s a ‘he’ from the mere fact that Chase had chosen not to specify a gender, and the fact that he’d been strong enough to make Chase lose consciousness. All Chase had was this person's word that he wasn’t sick, and somehow he doesn’t strike House as being particularly trustworthy. In all likelihood, he’s another troubled little rich boy who likes inflicting pain as much as Chase apparently likes taking it. Maybe they should be running a full STD panel, after all. 

He needs to look harder at Chase’s medical records. He’s read through the file so many times now that he practically knows it by heart. But maybe there’s something he’s failed to connect with what’s going on, or maybe it isn’t what’s in the file that’s important – maybe it’s what _isn’t_. Scarlet fever hadn’t been in there, for example. As a doctor, Rowan Chase had probably diagnosed his son more than once. There could be something else that Chase never visited his pediatrician or general practitioner for, that didn’t make it into the file. House had assumed he knew Chase’s history, but the more he learns, the more he realizes that there’s a lot about Chase he knows nothing about.

His childhood complaints were frequent sore throats from strep and tonsillitis, and the accompanying complications: sinusitis and ear infections. After the tonsillectomy, his medical visits had decreased dramatically. Throughout his teens, he’d only seen the doctor for minor sports injuries and occasional bouts of the flu. He’d been diagnosed with mono in his early twenties, around the time he would have been finishing med school, maybe a month or so before he graduated. A chronic condition of Chase’s appears to be bad luck.

Overcome with fatigue, House squeezes his eyes shut and blinks, trying to snap himself back to full consciousness. He needs to walk around, or he’s going to fall asleep standing up and probably fall and crack his head open. He paces in circles around his office, but can’t keep it up for more than several minutes.

He sits at his desk, putting his head down. He’ll just rest his eyes for a second; that will freshen him up.

House is still face-down on his desk sound asleep when he gets a phone call. Fumbling around for his cell, he answers almost drunkenly with a sludgy, “Whaaaissit?”

“House, are you still at the hospital?” It’s Foreman’s voice, tense and full of urgency.

House rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, I’m still here. What’s going on?”

“You need to get down to the ICU. There’s an emergency. It’s Chase.”


	15. Chapter 15

A half-hour earlier, Cameron and Foreman are standing in the elevator on their way to the ground floor. Both of them are staring ahead in silent contemplation.

Foreman breaks the silence when a thought niggles at him. “What was Chase’s first symptom?”

Shaken from her thoughts, Cameron responds, “He was sneezing. He looked like he had a cold.”

Foreman rubs his chin, “What if was just a cold? Maybe he caught something else here at the hospital.”

“That’s not possible,” replies Cameron, “House ran the CBC confirming the low white count before he admitted him.”

“Not _after_ he was admitted – _before_ , when he came into work. Maybe he bumped into someone contagious in the lobby, or stood next to them in the elevator. This place is crawling with viruses. If his immune system was down from fighting a cold, he would have been more susceptible to catching one.”

“It was only a few days between when House sent him home from work and when he admitted him,” Cameron says unsurely.

“A few days could be more than enough time. We’ve been looking at viruses with slow onset because we assumed he was exposed on the plane. What if we need to be looking at the opposite?”

Cameron frowns thoughtfully. “How would we possibly know which patients he may have come into contact with?”

“We can ask him if he remembers anything. Even if he doesn’t, we still might be able to figure it out,” Foreman says animatedly, “He was fifteen minutes late for work; I remember checking my watch. Maybe we can use the logs to find out which patients were moving around that part of the hospital during that time frame.”

The elevator hits the ground floor. Cameron vacillates in front of the door as it opens.

Wearing a guilty look, she says, “My car is in the shop until tomorrow morning. I have a friend waiting outside to pick me up.”

“Go home,” Foreman tells her reassuringly, “I’ll go back and check it out. No need for both of us to stay; at least one person should have their head on straight tomorrow.”

Foreman waves goodbye to Cameron and hits the button for the second floor. 

He heads to the ICU and makes his way to Chase’s room, hearing a commotion as he draws closer. What he discovers there is chaos.

Through the window, he can see nurses dressed in full PPE surrounding the bed, holding Chase down as he thrashes on the mattress. From what little he can see of Chase, he’s sweating buckets and his face is bright red. One of the nurses spots Foreman looking in and shuts the blinds in his face.

He goes for the door handle, but someone is already opening it from the other side. The door opens, and a harried-looking nurse comes out to glower at him from behind her mask.

“What’s happening in there?” Foreman moves to step around her, but the nurse blocks his path.

“Doctor Chase is very sick,” she tells him bluntly, “I’m sorry, but you can’t be here right now. Please go somewhere else.”

“I’m his doctor,” Foreman volleys back in irritation, “If something is wrong, it is very much my business.”

The nurse doesn’t budge. From the other side of the glass, Chase lets out a moan that rises into a scream.

Foreman rifles around in his briefcase until he finds his hospital ID badge. He holds it in front of her. “That’s my patient in there. I need access to him, or you’re going to be hearing from the head administrator for barring me from doing my job.”

She sighs, “I can’t let anyone near him until we’ve moved him into a cleanroom. His immune system is shutting down. He’s stopped responding to medication and, until you’re sterile, you’d be putting his life at risk.”

Foreman’s adrenaline begins to flow. “Alright, I’ll go suit up. Then you can explain what’s been happening. First, I need to make a phone call.”

*****

House is standing in a quarantined area of the ICU next to Foreman; they’re wearing sterile gowns, masks and gloves to gain entry to this part of the hospital. They’re looking at Chase through a glass wall. Inside the cleanroom, Chase is sweaty and unconscious, breathing fitfully through an oxygen mask. A half-hour earlier, he’d woken up screaming in agony; he’d stopped responding to the pain medication and had to be heavily sedated. The swelling in his head had gotten worse.

“He’s isn’t responding to the trial drugs anymore either, and his temp’s up over 105,” Foreman tells him, “I’ve started him on mannitol and hypertonic saline for the intracranial pressure, but who knows if he’ll respond. If it doesn’t start to go down soon, we’ll have no choice but to induce a coma or do a burr hole procedure to drain the fluid.”

House knows the gravity of the situation they’re facing. Without a functioning immune system, Chase’s body isn’t up to the task of taking on the viral invasion that’s wreaking havoc inside his head. If they can’t get the meds working again fast, they won’t need to induce a coma; he’ll slip into one all on his own. Even if they do induce one, he may not come out of it. Drilling isn’t even an option; he’s not responding to meds, and his temperature is fluctuating between 105 and 106. If they drill into his head, they’re going to kill him.

But he’s going to die anyway, if they don’t do something.

House looks pensively at Chase’s motionless form through the glass. “There is a third option: therapeutic hypothermia.”

“You want to put him into a stasis?” Foreman’s frown is visible, even under the mask.

“Hypothermia protects the brain through a reduction in metabolic rate, effects on cerebral blood flow, decrease in edema formation, modulation of the inflammatory response, neuroprotection of white matter, and modulation of apoptotic cell death.

“Heat accelerates, and cold slows down. Right now he’s burning up, which is spurring on the inflammation and speeding up his deterioration. If we can cool him down for long enough, we’ll be able to reduce the swelling, protect the brain, and give the medication the time it needs to do its job.”

“Prophylactics would induce a state of mild hypothermia for up to forty-eight hours,” Foreman says thoughtfully.

House shakes his head. “It doesn’t need to take that long. We can do it in twelve hours or less using the Thermogard machine.”

He taps his cane against the floor as a plan forms.

“First, we need to get his white count up, even if it’s just temporarily. We’ll start injections of colony-stimulating factors; filgrastim, pegfilmgrastim, and sargramostim. Once we’ve jump-started his immune system, we’ll lower his temperature and let the meds get to work.”

Foreman looks back to Chase in consideration. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

*

“Quattro line catheter,” House requests, holding out a gloved hand.

Foreman passes it to him. They’re in a small operating theatre inside the quarantine area, both fully sterilized and scrubbed in preparation. Chase is on the table, almost hidden beneath a pale blue sterile drape, hair tucked into a surgical cap, his face slack in unconsciousness. Because it’s a minor procedure, House has elected to give him a local anesthetic only, at the insertion site at the top of his leg.

Foreman disagrees with House’s decision not to put him under anesthesia. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t wake up halfway through and start thrashing around,” he says in his patented dry ‘it’s-your-funeral’ tone.

“If he does, we’ll deal with it. He doesn’t need any more heavy drugs in his system than the ones he’s already on,” House overrules him. Foreman shrugs, spikes a bag of 500 cc’s of sterile saline, and hangs it from the side of the Thermogard machine.

The procedure is fairly straightforward: a catheter tube and two temperature probes are attached between the patient and a Thermogard machine, which delivers cold saline through the tube into a major artery without entering the bloodstream. The saline circulates in a closed-loop, using balloons located on a central venous line, rapidly lowering and controlling the body’s core temperature.

Foreman connects the tubing from the saline bag to the machine. When the machine is primed, he looks over at House, indicating with a nod that they’re ready to start.

House presses his fingers against bare skin at the insertion site, injecting the tip of the gauge needle before plunging it into the blood vessel. He fills the plunger with blood and removes the syringe; he uses his hands to push the guide-wire he’s injected twenty-two centimeters deep until it hits its mark in the femoral artery.

Next, he uses a fine-pointed scalpel to widen the hole for insertion of the tiny catheter. Blotting away a dark trickle of arterial blood with a square of gauze, he draws back the metal wire into the plastic tubing until it meets flush with the skin. Once the catheter is fully inserted, he tapes it in place.

After linking the catheter tube, he connects the primary temperature probe to the Thermogard machine and the secondary probe to the overhead vitals monitor. House hits the standby ‘run’ button and, with a whirring sound, the machine comes to life and begins to deliver the saline.

Over the next ten minutes, House watches the temperature reading on the screen begin to drop rapidly from 41 degrees Celsius to 35 C. Another few degrees down to 33 C would achieve a state of mild hypothermia.

Then, beneath the humming of the machine, comes the sound of moaning.

“ _Mmmmmph_ …”

Foreman shoots House a sharp look across the table; neither of them move. A moment later, there’s another soft moan.

“He’s waking up,” Foreman observes, with an ‘I-told-you-so’ underlining the words.

House curses internally. “Give him a low-dose injection of propofol - just enough to put him out.”

Chase’s body twitches, and his head turns from side to side. Without thinking, House reaches down and finds his hand on the table. As Chase’s hazy blue-green eyes blink open, House moves in close, forcing Chase to look at him.

Chase’s eyes narrow in confusion, “House?”

“Hey.”

“What’s going on?” Chase’s voice is slurry. He blinks at the harsh surgical lights, “Am I in surgery?”

“You just had a minor procedure, we inserted a catheter. You’re fine,” House tells him, holding eye contact.

Chase closes his eyes tight and shakes his head, looking as though he’s in pain, “I’m cold.”

“That’s from the saline we’re using to lower your temperature,” House explains gently, squeezing his hand, “Don’t worry about it.”

Foreman lifts back the drape from the other side of the operating table, finding Chase’s arm, “We’re going to give you something to help you sleep now.”

Chase doesn’t protest when Foreman administers the propofol injection and, with a shuttering of his eyelids, he slides back into unconsciousness. House keeps hold of his hand for a moment, examining his face to make sure he’s thoroughly out.

 _Come on, Chase._ House wills his thoughts to transfer from his mind into Chase’s.

_I need you to come out of this with all your faculties intact._

_I need you to put up a fight._

_Or else you’re doing all my clinic duty, forever._

_And pulling quadruple-shifts._

_And you’re fired._

_I need you to be okay. I need…_

House lets the thought end there, not prepared to finish it.

Searching Chase’s face for signs of consciousness and finding none, House releases his hand, letting it drop and go limp against the table.

“We’re done. Let’s get out of here,” he says finally. “We’ll see if it worked in a couple of hours.” 

*

Chase is laid out on a large blue beach towel, barefoot with the cuffs of his pants rolled up, on top of soft white sand. It’s a beautiful evening, that perfect time of day when the sun begins to wane and soft pinks start to dapple the undersides of the clouds. He can smell salt in the air and hear waves breaking against the shore.

His mother is lying next to him, staring up at the sky. She’s dressed in shorts and a white tennis shirt, her long blonde hair spilling out behind her head.

“Tell me about the one who likes you,” she requests.

Chase stares blankly. She makes an exasperated face and motions with her hand.

“Older, nice blue eyes, seems like a bit of a wanker at first, but turns out he’s actually really lovely, deep down?”

“House?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Chase shakes his head.

“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Mum. He’s my boss, and he doesn’t like me the way you’re talking about. I’m not even sure if he likes me at all. I think he might have a crush on whatever’s wrong with me though, since it keeps playing hard to get.”

“You’re only saying that because you hate to get your hopes up. Probably my fault.”

Chase doesn’t disagree. He tries changing the subject. “When is this?”

“You’re dreaming again, babe. We never had this exact moment,” she reminds him, “You’re all grown up, and I’m dead.”

“Is there a moment I’m drawing from?”

“After I got out of rehab the last time, I think.”

“Oh, right. Things were really nice then, for a while.”

She looks over at him fondly. “That’s because I finally stayed sober. Too bad I’d already shot my liver by then.”

He turns his head to look up at the clouds again, not wanting to spoil the moment.

“I screwed everything up,” she sighs, and then amends, “Except you. You’re the only thing in my life that turned out perfect.”

He’s tempted to tell her how far off she is, but somehow it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.

Sensing his thoughts, she turns onto her side to place a hand on his cheek. “You are always going to be the thing I love most in the world and the thing I’m most proud of. My beautiful, smart boy.”

The sun is beginning to go down on the far-off horizon, sending flashes of orange and yellow light glittering across the surface of the waves. He remembers the sunsets on this particular stretch of beach; nothing else really compares to them. 

She cranes her neck slightly to look at the shore, “We’ll have to move soon,” she observes, “The tide is coming in.”

“What if I don’t want to go back?” he asks suddenly. “Do I get to stay here with you?”

“You could. Or you could go back with your friends and your grouchy boss.”

He pushes himself up on his elbows to see that she’s right about the tide; the water is lapping close to his feet now. He looks over at her for a long moment, watching her watch the sky.

“Mum, I miss you.”

“I know, babe. I miss you, too.”

She rests her head against his shoulder as the sun goes down behind the ocean in a brilliant blaze of orange light. As the day fades, a cool turquoise seeps into the sky.

She turns to him, “Time to go, I think. Are you coming?”

*

“Is there anyone we should call, do you think?” Foreman asks, after they’ve left the cleanroom in which Chase and the machine have been deposited, and have taken off their scrubs.

It’s three in the morning, and the procedure has gone off as well as it could. Now comes the boring, anxiety-inducing part where there’s nothing left to do but monitor and wait to see if their efforts have produced the desired result.

“I don’t think so,” House replies. He’s fairly certain that at least a few of Chase’s grandparents are still alive, but he’s never heard Chase mention them. “Who’s his emergency contact?”

Foreman gives him a funny look. “Uh… you are?”

House stares in disbelief at Chase’s oblivious face through the glass. “Since when?”

“No idea. He didn’t ask you?”

“Nope,” House shakes his head and looks at Chase in wonderment, feeling like he’s just been punked from beyond the veil.

Foreman shrugs indifferently. “I guess that’s something you two can discuss when he wakes up. For now, you’re in charge of any decisions that need to be made, whether you like it or not.”

Thinking about it, House decides he can live with this; at least he won’t have to worry about irrational intervention from any sobbing, hysterical family members. He feels a small stab of pity for the fact that Chase doesn’t seem to have any of those, though.

“What were you doing back at the hospital, by the way? I thought you went home,” House asks Foreman as the thought occurs to him.

Foreman looks slightly sheepish. “I decided to stay. I had a theory that I wanted to explore.”

“What theory?”

“I thought he might have caught something at the hospital on his first day back at work, before you sent him home.”

“Making the cold symptoms irrelevant,” House frowns in consideration.

Foreman nods, “I’m going to go upstairs and have a look at the board, to see what I can come up with.”

House is caught in indecision; he doesn’t want to leave, but he’s twiddling his thumbs here. He should probably join Foreman for a differential.

Reading his expression, Foreman says, “One of us should be here, in case anything happens. I’ll go, you stay. I’ll call you if anything turns up.”

“I’ll call you if I hear anything.” 

Foreman leaves, and House settles himself on a chair in the waiting area outside the quarantine zone. Once Chase has recovered, House is going to demand that he pay the chiropractor bills for all the uncomfortable chair-sitting he’s been doing; it’s really doing a number on his back, not to mention his leg.

When he’s too exhausted to keep his eyes open, House leaves the nurses with instructions to wake him if anything changes and eventually dozes off, splayed out lengthwise across three chairs. The next thing he knows, someone is nudging him.

“G’way,” House mutters, swatting at the hand, which dodges him and persists. He cracks an eyelid to see Wilson standing above him, holding a Styrofoam tray and a white paper bag.

“I brought coffee and donuts,” Wilson announces, “You look like you could use some sustenance.”

House wordlessly takes the coffee that Wilson hands him and takes a long sip. The instant hit of caffeine he gets from the bitter, warming liquid feels like heaven after a night of anxiety and crappy sleep.

“How’s he doing?” Wilson asks, removing the lid of his coffee cup to shake in packets of sugar.

“He’s a popsicle,” House remarks tonelessly. “We had to induce hypothermia to bring down the swelling.”

“Smart,” Wilson nods, stirring his drink with a wooden stirrer.

“That’s _if_ the swelling goes down, without further intervention. If it doesn’t work, we’ll have to induce a coma, or drill into his skull.”

“Burr holes are a fairly safe procedure,” Wilson notes.

“Not in the shape he’s in now.”

Wilson offers House the open bag of donuts. House declines, feeling too jittery to eat anything at the moment.

With a morose sigh, he adds, “It doesn’t help that his immune system’s in the toilet. He doesn’t have enough white blood cells to fight off a cold, never mind a brain infection. We had to load him up with G-CSF.”

“Good thinking. That should rev up his immune system long enough for the meds to take effect.”

“Maybe. But it’s like plugging holes in a sinking ship. He needs an immune system that functions.”

Wilson takes the seat next to him. “It’ll bounce back up fairly quickly, once you get him on the right treatment. I see it with my cancer patients every day, after radiation therapy. The body is incredibly resilient, especially in someone young and in good physical shape.”

House doesn’t argue. He and Wilson sit together, mostly in silence, for another half hour until a nurse in pink scrubs approaches them. 

“Doctor House? I wanted to let you know that the bedside CT we performed on Doctor Chase indicates that the intracranial pressure has gone down significantly. He’s responding well to the medication, and his immune system is picking up strength. He should be stable enough to re-warm and transfer back to the ICU whenever you’re ready.”

House tries hard not to look too visibly relieved, but Wilson’s a bloodhound for emotion; despite House’s efforts, he sniffs it out anyway.

Wilson gives House one of his insipidly warm smiles. “He’s going to be okay.”

House slurps his coffee, “Good. I hate it when they die. There’s always paperwork.”

Wilson gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything. They sit together for a few moments of companionable silence. Then Wilson has to go and ruin it.

“I know you like to say that people don’t change,” Wilson begins, “but look at you. You’re a selfish, arrogant ass, but for possibly the first time in your life, you’ve put someone else’s needs above your own. You’ve practically lived at the hospital since Chase was admitted, and you’ve barely left his bedside.”

House snorts indignantly. “Well, maybe I’d be able to, if he’d stop nearly dropping dead once every few hours.”

“Face it, House – the facts say that you are actually capable of caring about another human being,” Wilson beams at him obnoxiously, “Maybe a leopard actually can change its spots.”

Something jolts in House’s brain.

The gears in his head begin to turn. His eyes cloud and then clear as a thought crystallizes.

“House?”

“Spots,” he says to himself, lips twitching with the hint of a smile.

He marches into Chase’s room, hurriedly throwing on a mask and applying hand-sanitizer before yanking on a pair of latex gloves.

“What are you doing?” Wilson trails in after him, following suit with the mask and gloves.

“Defrosting him, and waking him up. Then I’m going down to the lab. Do me a favor and get my team together. We need to have a talk.”

  
*

Cameron and Foreman have gathered in Chase’s ICU room an hour later, waiting for House to arrive. House had texted them with a cryptic message to bring the whiteboard with them after Wilson had rounded them up.

Chase is bundled in blankets with chills running through him, feeling like there’s ice in his veins. He’d woken up attached to a Thermogard machine set to ‘re-warm’ with his body covered in an electric blanket and surrounded by hot water bottles. Foreman had been sitting next to him, reading a newspaper. Cameron arrived ten minutes later still wearing her scarf and coat, boots wet from the snow.

Chase has little memory of the past twenty-four hours. They haven’t told him much, apart from the fact that he’d been put in a state of induced hypothermia to reduce the swelling in his head. He can guess that he’s been very sick from how gentle and nice Foreman is acting towards him, and from the fact that he feels almost no pain at all – he must be on seriously strong painkillers.

“How much is 20 multiplied by 32?” Foreman asks him.

“640.”

“Good. Repeat after me: ‘no ifs, ands or buts’.”

Chase repeats the phrase, and Foreman nods, “Your responses are good. How does your head feel?”

“A little sore, but nothing like it was before.” The only trace of pain he feels is a garden-variety headache.

“How about your neck?” Foreman places a thumb under Chase’s chin and tips his head slowly from side to side.

“Stiff, but it doesn’t hurt,” he replies truthfully.

Cameron sets a mug down on the table next to him. “Chamomile tea. It should help warm you up.”

Watching steam rise from the cup, Chase is moved by her thoughtfulness. It also makes him feel awkward; even after all that’s happened lately, he never knows how to react to being fussed over. “Thanks, Cameron.”

Chase drinks his tea, which does make him feel a bit warmer, and the heat of the mug feels good in his frozen hands. Cameron plays around with the thermostat until she’s satisfied with the room temperature; it doesn’t feel any different to Chase but, when she asks, he tells her it’s much better. 

Once they’ve all had a chance to grow impatient and antsy, House finally bursts through the door with the manic look he gets when he’s either riding a particularly gratifying vicodin high or is buzzing off a diagnosis.

“Gang’s all here!” he greets them, “Good – I’ve got some tragic news. You can all hold each other and cry.” Limping along, he approaches Chase, readjusting his demeanor into something somber.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” House lays a steadying hand on Chase’s shoulder, looking down at him mournfully. “You have a rare and incurable condition: your body is physically incapable of looking unattractive.” 

Chase stares at him in confused bewilderment. House drops his hand and strolls over to the whiteboard.

“You know what’s wrong with him?” Cameron asks sharply. House picks up a marker.

With his back to his team, he says,

"If a leopard didn't have any spots, how would you know it was a leopard?"  
  
None of them reply. House begins to scribble on the board.

At the bottom of the list, he adds another symptom. In large capital letters, he writes:

 _-RASH_  
  
Cameron and Foreman both look over at Chase, who looks down at himself dubiously. "I haven't got a rash."

"I know. Now, pretend that you're looking at these symptoms for the first time. Give me your diagnosis."

The list, as it stands, now reads:

_-Runny nose_

_-Sneezing_

_-Conjunctivitis_

_-Fever_

_-Cough_

_\- Lung Crackles_

_-Swollen Lymph Nodes_

_-Sore Throat_

_-Low WBC_

_-Middle Ear Infection_

_-Pneumonia_

_-Hyperpyrexia_

_-Febrile Seizure_

_-Encephalitis_

_-RASH._  
  
Using two markers, House drum-rolls on the table. "Come on. First one who guesses gets a cookie."  
  
For a long moment, the three of them stare at the board, studying the symptoms in silence. It's Chase who finally breaks it.

" _Measles_?”  
  
House finishes with a marker crescendo and he makes a " _pssshhhht_ " sound miming a high-hat.

"And the cookie goes to… Chase!"  
  
House’s fellows continue to stare at him with matching looks of incredulity.  
  
"Don't tell me--I know what you're thinking. He's had his MMR shots, no rash, etcetera - we’ll get to all that. First, let’s talk about measles.

"Measles is practically unheard of these days, at least here in the grand old U.S. of A. Babies get their first MMR shot at nine months and another six months later, immunizing them against measles, mumps, and rubella. Like smallpox and polio, to us in the Western world, it basically doesn't exist.

“Except that it does. The risk of catching it is much higher when traveling internationally, due to large outbreaks currently going on in other countries. Developing countries in Europe, Africa, and Asia are still teeming with it, mostly because it's so unbelievably infectious.

“If an infected person coughs in a closed space- say, for example, an airplane – thousands of respiratory droplets hang in the air for up to two hours. An unvaccinated person would only need to breathe in a few of these to contract it.

“The other reason it spreads is that people don’t know they have it right away, even after they begin to show symptoms. Most people in the early stages don’t even have the common sense to stay home. They go to work, school, and on public transportation, all while filling the air with their extremely contagious germs.

“The nice thing for us vaccinated folk is that it really doesn’t matter to us. Even if a measles-infected person happened to sneeze directly at you, you’d still be immune. The MMR vaccine is extremely effective - up to 97% with the double-dose. Of course, that means there's still the 3% of unlucky bastards who’ve had their shots and catch it anyway.

"Usually, these poor suckers have weakened immune systems due to underlying issues - say, having their tonsils removed. They get run down, climb onto a plane, and breathe recycled air for 22 hours straight; then somebody coughs on them and- Bam! Measles.

“After a ten to twelve day incubation period, symptoms begin to appear. The first three to four days of the prodrome period starts off like a bad cold. It begins with a runny nose, coughing and sneezing, red watery eyes, and fever.

“Patients don’t exhibit anything distinct until around day three when Koplik spots appear inside the mouth – little grey specks on the inner cheek lining which typically go unnoticed, unless you know to look for them. They disappear within a day or two.

“Diagnosis isn’t normally made until day four or five when the maculopapular rash breaks out. Flat red spots appear on the face, first at the hairline and behind the ears, before spreading from the neck downward. The distinctive rash is the hallmark of a measles infection; it covers the skin from head to toe. We’ll come back to that in a minute.

“Meanwhile, the virus quickly spreads to the immediate lymph nodes. Destruction of the lymphoid tissues leads to profound leukopenia, opening the door for more infections. Common complications include conjunctivitis, sore throat, ear infections, pneumonia, and, in the most serious cases, encephalitis.

“The most unique feature of measles pathogenesis is its ability to reset the immune system. During the acute phase of infection, it induces immunosuppression through a process called immune amnesia.

“The way this works is simple: like any other virus, it invades cells to multiply and spread, hijacking the machinery to copy itself. Unlike other viruses, it favors immune memory cells: the cells that record and catalog a person’s lifetime of infections, helping them combat future assailants on repeat encounters.

“By infecting memory cells, the virus not only wipes out the body's immune recollections, it essentially turns the system against itself by forcing healthy immune cells to eradicate their infected comrades. If the virus hasn’t killed the memory cells already, the immune system finishes the job itself.

“The immune system is trashed from the inside out, making it all but impossible for the body to fight off infection. That’s how a case of the sniffles turns into full-blown pneumonia in a matter of days.

“One of the anti-virals used to treat measles is ribavirin, which is what we used to treat the pneumonia – that’s why he got better before he got worse. The ribavirin is effective but needs to be used in combination with other drugs in order to take on the infection and prevent it from spreading to other parts of the body, including the brain.

“In the early stages, the virus activates in the respiratory tract approximately two days before the onset of fever. Fever usually disappears within a week, but tends to be biphasic with a second peak. A fever from measles usually maxes out at as high as 104. The really bad, really dangerous fevers are the product of a secondary infection: measles-induced encephalitis.

“Measles encephalitis is a complication of the central nervous system; it causes inflammation in the brain and spinal cord, where the immune system starts attacking healthy cells and tissue. It causes acute high fevers, delirium, and seizures, and presents with nausea, neck stiffness, and excruciating headaches as the brain swells. If it isn’t treated right away, it can cause permanent brain damage, coma, and death. This is the worst complication that a person with measles can get.

“Now, time to go back to the rash.

“Atypical measles occurs in people who’ve been previously vaccinated. They still get all the fun of a measles infection, plus some weird extra symptoms to boot. And, in extremely rare cases, it presents without a rash.

“Apparently, even indiscriminate viruses think that Chase is too photogenic to be covered in unsightly spots. If he _had_ gotten the ugly rash, he would have saved himself a whole lot of trouble; we’d have diagnosed and treated him over a week ago, and he probably would have avoided the worst of the complications. Looks like beauty really is a curse.”

House finishes his speech. His fellows stare at him, dumbfounded.  
  
He adds, "In case you have any doubts, I rechecked his blood in the analyzer. IgG and IgM antibodies are both present, indicating an active measles infection. They have been this whole time; we just never thought to look.

"Now that we know what we’re dealing with, we can start treatment. Blast him with corticosteroids and anti-virals, and daily shots of Vitamin A. The infection will clear completely in a week or two. Over time, we’ll have to rebuild his immune system. He’ll also need booster shots of all the vaccines he’s ever had.”

Still not over the shock of House’s revelation, Cameron and Foreman gradually twitch out of their stupors and into action. Foreman shuffles over to a cart and begins hunting for a needle and syringe, while Cameron looks for prednisone amongst the bottles. Chase just sits there in bed, looking floored.

House claps Chase on the shoulder, startling him out of his daze. “Congratulations, Chase – you’re the only person I’ve ever met who can have a raging case of measles and still be the prettiest girl at the ball.” He looks at Cameron and Foreman. “Wait, if Chase is Cinderella, who does that make you two?”


	16. Chapter 16

In the wake of Chase’s brush with death, House can acknowledge that he may be experiencing some sort of secondhand post-traumatic stress. He’s become so used to waiting for the other shoe to drop that he’s started to feel on edge all the time; even now that Chase has been diagnosed and is on the right treatment, House’s nerves still haven’t gotten the memo; he’s half-expecting another medical emergency to explode in his face at any moment. So, with the curtain drawn around the bed, he indulges himself and his blood pressure by watching Chase sleep.

More accurately, he watches the television mounted in the overhead corner with his feet on the bed while Chase sleeps beside him. He isn’t entirely clear on what he’s watching (he thinks it’s a reality show about hoarders, but he’s not one hundred percent sure); he’d turned down the volume because he wants to be able to listen to Chase's breathing and count respirations every so often. His respiratory rate had dropped dangerously low during the hypothermic stasis, and it's taking a while to pick back up. All of his stats should start improving slowly but surely after he's had more time on the new meds. 

The meds really can’t kick in fast enough for House’s liking. He never thought he’d be able to say it, but Chase looks awful, at least for him. He'd been close to death the night before, and it shows. He's lost under a tangle of lines, tubes, and sensors; an oxygen mask is fastened over his face, and his hands and forearms are covered in tape and tubing from multiple IV sets and leads for the monitor. A feeding tube is looped behind his ear and up his nostril, descending through his esophagus into his stomach.

It's not just the tubes and apparatus creating an unhealthy appearance. His skin is frightfully pale, with bruise-dark circles surrounding his eyes. He’s lost weight; his last trip to the scale said nearly eight pounds since he was admitted. For Chase, that’s a lot; he’s never had anything extra to lose for as long as House has known him, so it’s mainly decreased muscle mass from lying in bed and not eating. He looks like what he is: a patient, just pulled out of critical condition in the intensive care unit. House can't even make cracks about it being too bad there aren't any good intensivists around, because Chase isn't awake to eye-roll at the lame joke. 

Chase, for his part, just lays there like an unconscious blond lump. He’d been given a hefty dose of trazadone and is dead to the world; he’s been through enough in the past few days that House wouldn’t blame him if he slept nonstop for a week. He was still half-frozen during and after House’s epiphany, and it had taken several hours of being heaped with extra blankets before the chills stopped. A low-grade fever has crept back up, but at least his forehead no longer feels like touching a stovetop. He’s still being kept away from other patients while his immune system recalibrates, so nobody is around to intrude upon House’s vigil; that is, until a nurse shows up.

House has become largely immune to the presence of the nurses. He’s starting to become familiar with their faces, and even their temperaments. Most of them have little patience for him, and vice versa. They’ve silently come to a mutual agreement that ignoring each other is the path of least resistance, unless House is in a particularly ornery mood and needs someone to vent at.

The nurse who arrives pushing a cart stacked with towels, tiny bottles of soap, and a basin of hot water is a no-nonsense character who blatantly ignores any snide comments that House throws her way, therefore taking the fun out of it. She’s youngish, and a founding member of the Chase fan club. Her name is Patricia, or Tisha, or something like that.

“I’m here to give him a sponge bath,” she says without fanfare.

House gives her a simpering look, “I guess dreams really do come true.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate some privacy,” she replies, unblinking.

There’s no denying that Chase could use a good scrub. His hair is stiff with day-old sweat and there’s a dark ring staining the collar of his hospital gown. It can’t be comfortable.

“Fine. But only because I might cry when he wakes up halfway through to propose marriage. Good thing you wore your nice scrubs.”

House departs for a visit to the cafeteria to buy coffee and a sandwich and load up on snacks. He swings by the office on a whim to grab his red and grey tennis ball for Chase to play with when he wakes up.

When he returns, Chase’s hair is damp and he’s dressed in a clean hospital gown. He smells like soap and his skin is scrubbed pink, like he’s just come out of the shower.

Patricia or Tisha is unloading a stack of folded linens to change Chase’s bed with. House watches in silence as she removes the green knit blanket and top sheet followed by the pillowcases and drops them into a laundry hamper. 

She turns to House. “Would you mind helping me turn him onto his side?” she requests.

Without a word, House helps her push Chase into an accommodating position. Chase is reactive enough that he isn’t dead weight, so when they roll him sideways, he curls into himself and draws his knees up.

With Chase moved aside, the nurse begins rolling the fitted sheet into the center of the bed until one side of the mattress is bare. She attaches a clean one, and they turn Chase over to face the other way while she repeats the process on the opposite side. When the new sheet is fully in place, she moves Chase onto his back again. He stays asleep throughout the procedure.

By the time she’s finished, Chase is immaculate and tucked in fresh sheets and blankets. He looks more at ease and like himself than he had an hour earlier, and even a bit healthier with some color rubbed into his cheeks.

As the nurse is rolling the cart out, House grudgingly says, “Thanks.”

She turns in surprise, “You’re welcome. I hope you take good care of Doctor Chase. He’s a friend.”

House doesn’t reply as he watches her leave; it goes without saying that he intends to.

*

It’s late that evening when House hears footsteps approach and pause in the doorway of Chase’s room. After a beat, Wilson says,

“You know, if you keep this up, Coma Guy is going to start to get jealous.”

House doesn’t remove his eyes from Chase, who’s sleeping deeply and peacefully. Some of his normal coloring has already returned to his face, and he’s breathing evenly through the oxygen mask.

“I’m giving Coma Guy some space. I told him we’re seeing other people. He took it hard.”

Wilson steps into the room to stand alongside him. Looking down at Chase, he asks, “How’s his response to the medication so far?”

“We’re giving him a combination of the trial drugs and standard meds for the encephalitis, and targeted treatment for everything else. Everything else being pneumonia and the measles.”

Wilson’s brown eyes are awash with sympathy, “Poor kid. No wonder he’s been so sick.”

“He’s already starting to recover. The encephalitis is on the wane; his latest bedside CT showed the swelling has gone way down, and he has no cognitive problems as far as we can tell.”

“How’s the pneumonia?”

“Showing steady improvement. He’s going to have a cough for a while, and he needs to stay in bed for a couple of weeks. But he’s not in danger of a relapse unless he’s careless.”

“And the measles?”

“Has nearly run its course. If we had gotten it sooner, he’d be recuperating at home by now. He’s doing well on the steroids and anti-virals, and he’ll be on Vitamin A injections for the rest of the week.”

Wilson rubs his chin in thought, “We’re going to have to be on high alert for an outbreak. Measles is horrifically contagious, and it’s possible he’s been exposing other immunocompromised or unvaccinated patients just by breathing the same air.”

“That’s Cuddy’s headache, not mine.”

“So, how about a drink to celebrate?” Wilson suggests, “You saved two patients’ lives this week. I think you’ve earned yourself a beer or two.”

House shakes his head, “Raincheck. I’m going to stay here a few more minutes, and then I’m going home to sleep in my own bed.”

“Well, if there’s something you’ve earned more than a beer, it’s a good night’s sleep,” Wilson puts a hand on House’s shoulder, giving it a pat, “Goodnight, House.”

House stays a few minutes longer before setting the red and grey tennis ball on the bedside table; Chase loves the stupid thing almost as much as he does. Even if House won’t, it will be there when he wakes up.

By the time House arrives back at his apartment, he’s ready to crash. For the first time in weeks, he’s looking forward to sleeping at home. This time, he isn’t just submitting to the possibility of another Chase dream – he’s hoping for one. He’s been riding high off the victory of Chase’s diagnosis, and he does want to reward himself – just not with a beer. He takes a couple of trazadone before lying down and passing out.

House isn’t sure which Chase is going to greet him: the dominant or the submissive, the one who desperately wants him, or the real-feeling one he’d left on the hotel balcony. At this point House doesn’t really care; he just wants to look at a Chase that isn’t lying in a hospital bed.

In House’s dream, he’s standing in the doorway of the diagnostics office. Chase is there in his white lab coat and converse sneakers, an eyesore of a tie and a bright green argyle sweater-vest. He’s standing in front of House’s desk, holding the tennis ball. He looks up to meet eyes with House, a flicker of guilt in them at being caught.

“Hi, House,” he says, setting the ball down.

House stares. This is _his_ Chase, the one he sees every day, whole and healthy, looking ready for a differential. He looks so unassuming and normal that House is taken aback and freezes in place.

Sensing something, Chase furrows his brow, “House, is something wrong?”

House shakes his head and chokes out, “No. Everything’s fine now. Get back to work.”

*

Three days after his diagnosis, Cameron is feeling Chase’s pulse. “Your heart rate is down,” she says, releasing his wrist, “That’s a good thing. It was really high for a while.”

This isn’t his first vitals check by a long stretch, but it’s the first that he’s fully awake for. Chase had been sleeping almost continuously since House’s epiphany, only really waking up a few hours ago. They’d left him to it for the most part, only rousing him to medicate him and check his cognition. He did these things, but barely remembers them.

The past few days are blurry, his memories mostly made up of physical sensations like the pinch of his vitamin injections and the tickly feeling of liquids moving inside the feeding tube. He remembers House being there sometimes when he opened his eyes, with his feet on the bed next to Chase's, watching the TV in the corner. His fuzzy recollections are a side-product of the heavy medications they’ve been pumping him full of: IV tubes delivering powerful steroids and anti-virals are taped to the backs of his hands and inner forearms. He has a loop-like memory of being sat up to swallow pills, which happened every few hours. 

The first day, he’d woken up confused and rather hostile, batting a penlight out of Foreman’s hand when it made his eyes hurt. They’d injected him with a tranquilizer and he’d slept through the next day and a half. A lot of healing has taken place since, while the medications kicked in. Cameron is impressed with the amount of improvement he’s already made.

By the third day, he's able to take his medication without someone having to lift his head off the pillow and tip the cup of pills into his mouth. He's graduated from an oxygen mask back to the nasal cannula, and he’s ditched the embarrassing indwelling urinary catheter that had been taped to his leg; he’s now allowed to hobble to the bathroom with the help of a nurse. He remains on the feeding tube, but it might come out tomorrow if he’s still on a roll with holding liquids; he’d experimented with a few bites of clear soup and, touch wood, he’s been keeping it down so far.

He’s still pathetically weak and becomes exhausted over the simplest tasks; he’d nodded off doing his crossword puzzle, unable to concentrate and lacking the energy to lift the pencil. It seems insane that he’d gone from waking up with a stuffy nose two weeks ago to falling so horrifically ill that he’d spent a good six hours the day before yesterday being unable to swallow. Still, he’s trying to focus on the positive. 

His heart rate is down, his blood pressure is significantly less low than it had been at the height of his illness, and he looks slightly less like a corpse. The rest of his other erratic vitals seem to be leveling out. Cameron notes them on a chart that’s specifically for House’s use; the nurses rely on the monitor for patient charts, while House is scornful of monitor readings and believes in checking vitals the ‘real’ way. According to Cameron, this rule has been applied to Chase more than any other patient.

“He’s been taking them himself, if you can believe it,” she adds, quickly shining a penlight at his eyes and watching his pupils contract. She touches his forehead, “Hm. Still a little warm. Let’s check your temp.”

Using an infrared thermometer, she brushes his hair back and holds it inside his ear; when it sounds, she reads off the screen, “99.6. Getting back to normal. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Chase tells her, confessing, “I’m bored, more than anything else.”

“Well, you’re going to be here a while longer, so you’ll have to find ways to keep busy. You’ve got a few presents that might help.”

A faint blush creeps into his cheeks. Apart from the cookies, he wasn’t aware of any presents. “Oh. From who?”

With a smile, Cameron passes him a stack of various items, “These are from Wilson.”

The stack contains a pack of playing cards and travel-size versions of popular games: a mini chess-set, Monopoly, and Scrabble. A ‘Get Well’ card sits on top, which says in Wilson’s tidy penmanship, ‘ _Glad you’re feeling better – let me know if you need an extra player. I play a mean game of Monopoly! Best wishes for a speedy recovery, Wilson’_. 

She nods to a pile of papers on the table, “Those are from Cuddy. Not really a gift, but it will keep you busy for a while. She left you a card, too.”

Chase picks up the papers: a bunch of insurance forms, a request form for sick leave, etcetera. The card reads, ‘ _Doctor Chase, Good to hear you’re recovering. We need you back on your feet and keeping House out of trouble, so feel better! Best Wishes, Doctor Cuddy’_.

“Foreman left you these,” Cameron hands him a bag of lollipops, the kind the nurses hand out to small children to distract them from getting their shots, “And this.” It’s a bill for Foreman’s dry-cleaning. For throwing up on him, Chase owes him $13.50.

Cameron tentatively holds up a bag, “I hope you don’t mind, but I used the key to your apartment to get you a few pairs of pajamas and other stuff. Socks, that sort of thing. I watered your plants while I was there.”

Chase dumps the contents of the bag onto his lap, staring in awe, “Oh, Cameron, thank you, you’re an angel. I can’t wait to get out of this stupid hospital gown. Every time I stand up in this thing, House pretends to stare at my ass. You have no idea how good it feels to have actual clothes.”

Cameron looks almost as pleased as he is. “No problem. I tried to pick things that would be comfortable.”

“This is perfect,” Chase says; unable to wait, he pulls on one of his university hoodies and zips it up.

“I see House left you something,” she observes, looking at the red and grey tennis ball that Chase had discovered when he first woke up.

Chase picks it up and tosses it lightly, “Yeah, it’s a loaner. He says I can keep it until he has a new case,” he says with a small grin.

“Wow. That’s actually kind of sweet of him,” Cameron marvels, with a whimsical look at the ball.

Chase snorts, “Don’t tell _him_ that. He’ll probably throw it at my head, just to prove he doesn’t actually like me.”

Cameron smiles as though they’re sharing a secret, “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

*

Two days later, Chase has been transferred from the ICU to the ward. He’s sitting with Foreman, performing a battery of neuropsychological tests to ensure that nothing in his brain is amiss. They’ve been at it for nearly four hours; Chase knows that it’s essential, but he’s so bored that he almost wishes for more vivid hallucinations, to at least be imagining that he’s doing something else. 

Chase spent the morning being given an EEG test (the fun kind, where twenty-some-odd sensors were attached to his scalp for several hours to monitor brain activity). Then Foreman had conducted a comprehensive interview evaluating Chase’s cognition, memory perception, and critical thinking skills. Chase has completed standardized tests on math and language, and used flashcards to identify shapes and colors and create stories. He’s manipulated materials such as blocks and multi-dimensional puzzles to test for dexterity, pattern recognition, spatial reasoning and awareness. Right now he’s on pen and paper tasks; Foreman has asked him to draw a series of interconnecting circles. Art has never been Chase’s forte; he’s left-handed, and his handwriting isn’t great, either. Foreman looks amused with the result.

“This is just how I draw,” Chase says a bit defensively, handing over the paper to Foreman.

“I think we’re done here,” says Foreman, after scrutinizing Chase’s artwork and tucking it inside a folder with the rest of the tests. He slides it into his briefcase. “I’ll let you know when I’ve completed your assessment.”

Chase doesn’t bother to hide his relief. He’s been looking forward to taking a shower, the first he’s been allowed in who-knows-how-long. Now that they’ve stopped delivering his meds intravenously, he’s able to get out of bed without having to lug an IV pole around. He can officially make it from the bed to the bathroom without the aid of a nurse and, as of today, he will not only be allowed to eat his liquid meals all by himself but also shower on his own, instead of being tube-fed and bathed like a child.

Foreman gathers up his blocks and flashcards, preparing to leave. Chase swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands with remarkable ease; he’s been practicing, and Foreman brings out a childish side of him that wants to show off.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces, stepping capably toward the bathroom.

Instead of being impressed, Foreman looks faintly concerned. “Do you need help getting in there, or-?”

“No,” Chase replies a bit tersely; he’s perfectly capable of undressing himself and showering without assistance, especially Foreman’s.

Foreman narrows his eyes, “I’m not offering to soap your back, I’m just going to stand outside the door to make sure you don’t fall over and kill yourself.”

“Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.”

Chase enters the bathroom and closes the door. He shucks off his pajamas that Cameron had brought him and turns on the shower. He’s familiar enough with the cubicle; he’d been using it regularly until he’d become really ill. He’s heard several patchy versions of an incident where he’d been dumped here to cool down when his fever had first rocketed up, wherein House wound up in here with him to keep him from banging his head against the wall. It’s an embarrassing and unlikely visual that he tries not to over-think too much.

Stepping under the spray, he closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of hot water drumming steadily against his skin; it’s not something that happens during a sponge bath. He makes it through the process of washing his hair with the provided mini-bottle of chemical-smelling shampoo and rubbing single-use bar soap over himself without incident. 

It’s when he’s rinsing off conditioner that he makes the terrible mistake of tilting his head back too far and jerking it forward too fast. The room blackens and shudders; feeling light-headed, Chase finds himself clutching onto the handrail like someone’s sciatic grandmother. He feels a burst of panic that he’s going to fall and curses his treacherous body; he’s never been weak, even as a small kid he’d been strong and agile and athletic. He’s had the occasional fantasy about arm-wrestling the equally fit Foreman. Now he can barely hold himself up.

He sinks to the tiles to ride out the wave of dizziness. He feels trapped there, wondering if standing will make his head spin again, and if a nurse will have to come rescue him. Word of this humiliating incident will probably travel and provide House with some amusing new Chase-ribbing fodder. With his back against the wall, he hangs his head between his knees, wet hair clinging to his forehead. The water is beginning to run cold.

“Chase, are you okay in there?”

It’s Foreman’s voice at the door. Chase immediately finds the strength to rise and stand on his own two feet. He uses the rail for support and switches off the water.

“Yeah, just finishing up,” he calls back.

He dries himself off and changes into a fresh hospital gown they’d left there for him, because it’s less complicated than putting on clothes; he’ll change back into them later. He wipes a circle over the condensation on the mirror to look at himself. With dark smudges beneath his eyes against a chalky complexion, he still looks vaguely like he’d been dug out of his own grave, but at least he’s clean now.

He’s getting back to himself in small daily increments, which he’s grateful for; this doesn’t happen as quickly for many people after a brain-affecting illness. He probably has the trial drugs to thank for his thus-far optimal recovery. Encephalitis is a life-altering disease for most patients, and he’s extremely lucky to have come out of it with his mind fully intact. Now it’s just his body that needs catching up to regain its former abilities and strength.

Chase reemerges from his shower to find Foreman standing outside the bathroom with his arms folded and his back pressed against the wall. Chase makes his way back toward the bed and Foreman wordlessly follows him; Chase resents it until he stumbles slightly and Foreman grabs his elbow. Chase doesn’t thank him aloud, just acknowledges him with a nod. Foreman nods back and lets him go again once he’s steady.

*

The following day, House enters Chase’s room clutching a white pharmacy bag and almost double-takes to see him in pajama pants and a t-shirt emblazoned with the crest of the University of Sydney (Chase’s alma mater). He’s sitting up in bed, playing Monopoly with Wilson.

“Hey, House,” Chase greets him, not looking up from the board. To Wilson, he holds his hand out, “Fork it over.”

Grumbling, Wilson hands Chase a wad of fake money. “It’s not over yet,” he vows, then relays to House, “I was winning before Chase took Park Place.”

Chase says, “No, he wasn’t.”

House chuckles, “You have no idea how serious this is. You’re undoing Wilson’s greatest achievement. He thinks he’s unbeatable at Monopoly.”

“I beat _you_ every time,” Wilson says snippily.

“Only because I let you.”

Chase throws House a look of mirth, “You could join us for the next game. This one’s nearly finished.”

“No it’s not!” Wilson objects. He rolls the dice, then cringes, “Damn it!”

While Wilson grievously counts out money again, House replies, “No thanks. Watching you ruin Wilson’s day is fun enough. I just came to tell you that Cuddy got you the time off.”

Chase looks up from his growing stack of colorful bills in surprise, “That’s brilliant. Thank you for helping me sort it out. I’ll call Cuddy to thank her, as soon as I’m done kicking Wilson’s ass.”

“ _You_ helped with a sick-pay issue?” Wilson looks at House like he’s grown an extra head. When House glares at him, he shrugs, “It’s nice of you, that’s all.”

“No, it’s not. I need him back when he’s actually ready. If he keeled over or killed a patient on my clock, I’d never hear the end of it from Cuddy. Liability issues, and whatnot.”

Chase and Wilson carry on playing for another few minutes before Wilson groans extensively in defeat. He pats Chase on the shoulder and challenges him to a rematch tomorrow. On his way out, he confides to House, “I let him win.”

“Sure you did, Jimmy.”

Wilson points a warning finger, “Not another word.”

After Wilson’s departure, House looks on as Chase packs up the Monopoly board. “Look at you, wearing regular clothes. You almost look like a normal person,” he observes.

Glancing down at himself, Chase replies, “Thanks, I think. Cameron brought me some things from home.”

"I see you’re no longer peeing in a bag or eating through a tube. That’s quite an improvement.”

“Don’t forget swallowing my own saliva,” Chase reminds him, “I don’t like to brag, but I’m trying not to downplay my achievements.”

House quirks an eyebrow, “Didn’t think you’d remember that. You only lost your swallow reflex for a couple of hours when you were loaded up with tranquilizers, and you were out cold the whole time.”

“I don’t, really. Cameron told me afterwards.”

Taking a seat, House lays his cane across his lap. He studies Chase in silence for a long moment.

Chase is resilient, that’s for sure. In less than a week, he’s gone from the brink of death to playing Monopoly, complaining of boredom, and requesting arm-weights and resistance bands. Apart from the nasal cannula, the rest of him looks like normal Chase, albeit what he looks like after pulling an all-nighter or working a double-shift. He’s gained back most of the weight he’d lost, and he’s on a regime of light exercise that allows him to walk the halls under supervision. His face is a healthy color and his arms still have the ghost of a tan from the Australian sun. He’s so obnoxiously pretty that House wants to slap him.

Chase looks slightly unnerved. “What?”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I know,” Chase says, embarrassed, “Have I not thanked you enough? I don’t even know how to say it properly, except that I owe you my life. Literally.”

“I don’t want you to thank me.”

“Then what?”

House takes a breath before he answers. He wants to make sure Chase is paying attention.

“I want to know that you’ve learned your lesson,” House reprimands him, blue eyes stern. “I’m hoping the knowledge that you spent six hours drooling on yourself has impressed upon you how dire your situation has been. Most people who’ve been as sick as you were don’t just spring back up in a couple of days. You might have avoided all this if you weren’t running yourself into the ground.”

Chase sighs in utter hopelessness, “Right. I’m sure everything would have been fine if I’d been taking all my vitamins and getting my full eight hours sleep.”

“Don’t be glib. Your immunizations should have protected you.”

“I was run down,” Chase acknowledges, because House is right, as usual, “Maybe because I work eighty hours a week, and being a doctor is an intense job. And because I had to spend my vacation moving everything out of my parents’ house and dealing with lawyers and real estate agents, with 22-hour flights on either side,” An irked look crosses his face, “And because _you_ sent me off on a wild goose chase the day I got on the plane!”

This throws House somewhat. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I was outside in sub-degree temperatures, crawling down a well to collect water samples to test for heavy metals. By the time I'd finished, I was frozen solid! And then of course it wasn’t even necessary, because you’d already diagnosed the patient and couldn’t be bothered to call and tell me!”

“Semantics. My point still stands.”

“Fine,” Chase says grumpily, “Point taken.”

“I don’t want to see you as a patient again.”

“Neither do I, believe me. This hasn’t been a fun time for me, either.”

“No more serious illnesses. You don’t get to kick off until after you finish out your employment contract.”

“Agreed,” Chase concedes.

House’s posture relaxes, “Good. Glad we understand each other. Anyway, about your sick leave: you’ll be off with ninety percent pay for as long as it takes you to come back.”

Chase’s eyebrows go up in surprise, “Wow, that’s amazing. I’ll be back as soon as I can be, obviously. But that was really nice of Cuddy to sort it out.”

House shrugs, “For some reason, she seems to think you’re an asset to the hospital. I tried telling her otherwise, but she wouldn’t listen. I think it’s because you being here incentivizes the nursing staff to have a high attendance level, and keeps up their morale.”

“Speaking of the nurses, you should be nicer to them,” Chase scolds him, “They’re good people, and a lot of them are my friends.”

“Yeah, yeah, I already got the lecture from Cuddy. Don’t worry, I’ll send them a fruit basket,” House pauses for Chase to cough, a harsh, wet-sounding hack that House has grown used to hearing since Chase’s respiratory infection developed into pneumonia. House segues, “I hear Foreman gave you a gold star on your neuropsychological assessment, by the way. Looks like you haven’t suffered any permanent brain damage.”

“I can still draw pictures of circles and do basic math equations, yeah,” Chase says witheringly between coughs.

“Those were circles? You’re a terrible artist. I thought they were eggs,” House picks up the pharmacy bag and tears it open, hand emerging with a blue plastic inhaler, “Here, suck on this.”

Chase eyes it, “What is it, albuterol?”

“Ventolin. You have pneumonia, not childhood asthma. Maybe Foreman was being generous with his gold stars…”

Chase shakes the inhaler and takes a hit off it, then holds his breath for several seconds. He coughs again when he lets it out, but once the medicine starts taking effect, his lungs quiet down. House examines him; he’d looked bright when House had entered the room, but now he’s beginning to look drained and, in his boyish pajama pants and college t-shirt, like an oversized kid who’s up past his bedtime. House feels an unwanted tendril of something like sympathy unfurl in his chest.

“Your fellow fellows keep marveling over your amazing recovery. How are you feeling, really?” he asks.

“Much better,” Chase replies automatically.

“Not what I meant,” House says, adding, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not Cameron. I don’t actually care.”

“You want symptoms?” House nods, and Chase sighs, “Headaches, mostly. Nothing like before, just garden-variety. Tired all the time. Sick to my stomach after I eat. Stupid cough.”

House nods to the inhaler, “That should help with the cough. The other stuff will go away. Give it time.”

“I know,” Chase rubs one eye tiredly, “I just wish it would hurry up.”

“Just be happy that you’re going to make a full recovery. Now that your immune system is up and running, you should be fighting fit in time for your next polo tournament,” House watches Chase smother a yawn, “Go to sleep. You look like crap.”

Chase gives him a mocking little salute, “Yes, boss.”

House waits until Chase has crawled under the covers and is lying down to leave the room. As he’s limping out the door, Chase stops him.

“House?”

House turns to look back at him.

“Thanks for the inhaler, and… everything else.”

*

Five days later, Chase is eating in bed in his ward room when House comes rambling through the door. He takes a seat beside the bed and plucks a meatball off Chase’s plate, popping it into his mouth.

Chase gives him a nonplussed look. “I’m finally allowed to eat solid food again, and you’re stealing my lunch?”

House shrugs unassumingly, “Figured you probably don’t have much of an appetite, after the liquid diet and all. Besides, you should be watching your figure; you haven't exactly been hitting the gym much lately.”

Chase lifts an eyebrow at him, “Let me guess: Wilson beat you to the cafeteria and ordered a salad just to spite you.”

“He can be very selfish.”

House looks over the options on Chase’s lunch tray: spaghetti and meatballs, garden salad, fruit salad and a cup of vanilla pudding. He reaches for a chunk of watermelon; Chase stabs him in the hand with a plastic fork.

“Ow!” House jerks his hand back, clutching it protectively.

“Back off my salads,” Chase warns him, spearing the watermelon chunk with his fork and pointing it at him, “I need the vitamins. You can have the spaghetti and meatballs.”

House eyes the tray, “How about the pudding?”

“My pudding.”

“You’re a lot stingier than Wilson,” House sulks, piercing a meatball with a dessert spork and swirling the pasta around it, “You’d think diagnosing you with a subjectively rare disease and saving your life would earn me a lousy pudding cup.”

Unmoved, Chase says, “Go eat a cookie.”

While they eat, House flips open Chase’s chart and reads from it,

“Hm. 159.2. Miraculously, you’re back within a pound of what you weighed when you were admitted. Your BMI is still flawless, as usual. Must be those Chase family genes keeping you looking great, despite the laws of science.”

Chase shrugs, chewing a piece of cantaloupe. “I’ve been drinking protein shakes and eating loads of soup.”

After he finishes his salads, Chase goes to town on the pudding cup, doing… _things_ with his tongue, oblivious to the fact that House is staring at him. House finds it frankly unfair that someone who’d been half-dead mere days ago can look this good licking vanilla pudding off a plastic spoon. For the sake of his sanity, House decides to interrupt him before Chase can start licking his fingers or something.

“You know, it’s been totally worth missing out on the pudding to watch you go down on that spoon,” he comments, while the spoon is still in Chase’s mouth, “I’ve never been this turned on by pudding in my life, and I’m a regular attendee of the annual Jersey Shore bikini-wrestling contest.”

Chase extracts the spoon from his mouth with an audible pop, turning pink, “I’m not doing anything.”

“If you ever lose your medical license, you should think about a career in softcore food porn. You could charge an extortionate amount for what you just did to that poor, defenseless utensil.”

Chase goes from pink to red, “I don’t intend on losing my medical license anytime soon.”

“Suit yourself. But if you still need to pay off your student loans, I’d seriously consider eating pudding as a sideline.”

Determined to change the subject, Chase announces, “I wonder who you’re going to belittle and sexually harass when I get discharged on Wednesday. Wilson and Cuddy both seem fairly immune at this point.”

House’s good humor suddenly bottoms out. “Who says you’re being discharged? I never authorized that.”

Chase shrugs, “Talk to Cuddy. She’s the one who came to congratulate me.”

House is already halfway out the door, “Oh, believe me – I will.”

*

In Cuddy’s office, one of the hospital’s most generous (and profoundly Christian) benefactors is sitting across from her, wanting to know how the hospital has been using his donations.

House throws the door open hard enough for it to bang into the wall, causing Cuddy and her visitor to jump in their seats.

“So sorry to interrupt, but Doctor Cuddy and I have a pressing issue to discuss,” House proclaims.

Cuddy’s smile is enough to freeze the blood of someone lesser. “Oh, I think it can wait a few more minutes, Doctor House.”

“I don’t think it can, Doctor Cuddy. You see, I’m on the edge of my seat about this burgeoning fatherhood thing. I know we talked about the morning-after pill, but unmarried motherhood has always been one of your personal goals, so I say we throw caution to the wind and keep the little bastard. Also, if it’s a boy, I’d like to discuss the name Anton. As a practicing Satanist, I’d like to name him after the founder. ”

Cuddy laughs in horror, “Oh, you! Doctor House is a real jokester,” she explains to the benefactor, standing to shoo him from his chair and out of the room, “Let me talk to him in private for just one moment.”

The disgruntled man exits, with a surly look at House and Cuddy.

House says with mock-concern, “Oh, dear - is this a bad time?”

Cuddy glares at him irately, “That man’s donations are worth the funding for your entire department. This had better be good.”

House’s tone loses its joking edge. “You’re discharging him.”

“Chase?” Cuddy is perplexed for a flash of a moment; this isn’t what she’d been expecting him to say. She folds her arms over her chest, “Is there any good reason why I shouldn’t?”

“He’s recovering from a brain infection. He needs to be monitored.”

Cuddy becomes exasperated. “What do you want me to say, House? I’ve reviewed his charts, and all the information I have says he’s well enough to go home. His vitals are good, he’s on the right treatment, the encephalitis has basically cleared and the pneumonia is on the mend. Chase is a good doctor; he can take care of himself at home. Besides, he’ll be here under observation for another three days, to make sure he’s completely in the clear.”

House shakes his head, “Not good enough. He’s my patient. I decide when he’s ready to be discharged.”

“It’s my hospital. Ultimately, it’s my call,” Cuddy says bluntly. “I’m enforcing that he take a minimum of two weeks off work, and I’ve arranged for outpatient support and follow-ups. Until his immune system is fully functional, he’s better off staying away from other people, doctors and nurses included. We’ll give him testing kits so he can check his levels at home. We’re taking every measure to make sure he makes a full and fast recovery.”

“Every measure except keeping him here, where he should be,” House mutters angrily, “He needs more time.”

Cuddy studies him and purses her lips, “I know deep down in that dark and twisted heart of yours, you care about your employees. But you’re being irrational. This isn’t like you.”

House’s response is a loud, bitter snort. Cuddy sits back down at her desk, shuffling her papers to give her hands something to do. 

“Look, you don’t have a case right now. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she suggests. “You’ve been running yourself ragged. You look worse than Chase does.”

House nods, still emanating anger. “Okay. I’m going.”

Cuddy sighs, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No you won’t!” House shouts over his shoulder on his way out, “I’m taking a vacation.”

“For how long?” she calls, eyebrows knit.

“Not sure,” he yells, already making distance down the hall, “When I figure it out, I’ll send you a postcard.”


	17. Chapter 17

“BP is 110/80; heart rate is 65; temperature is 98.6. Respiratory rate is slightly elevated at 26, but otherwise, your stats are perfect,” Foreman reads from Chase’s chart, “You should be back on your feet pretty quickly by the look of things, as long as you’re getting plenty of sleep, eating healthy and drinking lots of fluids.”

Cameron adds for emphasis, “Make sure to look after yourself.”

“I will,” Chase promises; it’s going to require effort on his part.

Chase considers himself to be a good doctor, but he’s never had the best instincts when it comes to his own health. He’s slightly appalled with himself for misjudging so badly this time; even up to the point of being unable to breathe, he’d been fairly certain that all he was suffering from was a hideously bad cold. If House hadn’t dragged him to the hospital, he doesn’t like to think how things might have turned out.

“Your latest CBC shows a significant increase in white cells,” Foreman carries on, “You still don’t want to tempt fate by going out too soon after you’re discharged, though. Stay inside unless it’s absolutely necessary for at least the first week; you need to avoid germs. Right now, even a cold would hit you hard enough to put you back in the hospital.”

“I’ll stay in,” he assures them.

“How does it feel to be getting your marching papers tomorrow?” Cameron asks with a beaming smile.

“Really good,” he meets eyes with Cameron, then Foreman, “I want to say how grateful I am to you both for everything you’ve done for me. You saved my life. Thank you.”

Foreman looks slightly uncomfortable, “Nothing I wouldn’t have done for any other patient. Don’t mention it.”

Cameron responds by throwing her arms around him in a warm hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay. You really scared us a couple of times there. I’m just happy to have my friend back.”

Chase stiffens slightly at the contact before returning the gesture. Before releasing him, she presses a quick peck to his cheek, making him blush. To take attention away from how flustered he is, Chase asks, “Have either of you heard from House?”

House hasn’t been to visit him for the past two days. Chase had been waiting and wondering… eventually hoping. But House hasn’t shown up, so he’s assuming that House has lost interest now that he’s no longer a puzzle, and is already jonesing for his next case.

Foreman shakes his head, “Cuddy says he’s taking a vacation or something. Which probably just means he’s sitting around his apartment, getting stoned on vicodin.”

Chase has to agree, that sounds like what House would do with his time off. Maybe he does need a break; Chase’s hospitalization has thrown a wrench in his normal routine. He imagines a typical entry in House’s daily planner:

 _11 AM: Go to work three hours late. Yell at Chase for letting the coffee go cold. Discuss case, ignore all advice from the team; mock Chase’s suggestions.12PM: Make Chase break into the apartment of the patient, who collects animal skulls and decorates with upside-down crosses. 2 PM: Scold Chase for not bringing the skulls back; make him return to the apartment. 3 PM: Decide skulls are irrelevant. 5 PM: Patient starts bleeding from his eyeballs. Probably Chase's fault. 7 PM: Solve case. 8 PM: Go home, make love to Wilson. Fall asleep together on the rug in front of the fireplace. 11 AM: Yell at Chase._

There’s no denying that, after solving two cases simultaneously in short order, House is entitled to a well-earned retreat from work. Chase can’t help but feel disappointed that House hadn’t waited until after he’d gone home from the hospital to take his vacation, though. House’s visits have been the bright spots of his day, and Chase has been working up the courage to ask if he’d want to come over to watch a movie or something, when Chase is back at home. In all likelihood, House would have laughed in his face, but at least he would have tried.

“What time am I leaving tomorrow?” he asks, to change the subject.

“Evening, probably seven or eight o’clock. We still want to keep you during the day for observation, and put together a schedule for outpatient appointments. But at least you’ll get to sleep in your own bed.”

Chase hardly even remembers his own bed, at this point. It feels almost surreal to know that tomorrow he’ll be making tea in his kitchen and watching movies on his couch, and won’t have tubes coming out of his hands or nose. He’ll sort of miss having company, though.

He wonders if House ever feels lonely, living like he does. He thinks, probably not.

*

Wilson stands on the porch of 221 B Baker Street at ten o’clock at night, rapping insistently on the front door of House’s apartment. House is ignoring him, Wilson knows; both of House’s vehicles are parked outside and the indoor lights are on, glowing visibly through the windows.

After battering House’s door for what feels like an appropriate time, Wilson uses his spare key to enter. He is immediately hit hard with a rank smell that he can only describe as despair.

Wilson discovers House splayed out on the couch in his boxer-shorts and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, looking like he may not have moved from the spot in the past two days. The floor around the couch is littered with empty beer bottles and stale-looking pizza-boxes; House’s Flying-V guitar is balanced haphazardly against the coffee table, and there’s an extremely cheesy-looking 1970’s porno playing on mute on the television.

“It smells like an armpit in here,” Wilson grimaces, tiptoeing his way through the maze of garbage.

House quirks an eyebrow. “It’s the smell of manliness. I understand why you would find it unfamiliar.”

“It’s not just your musk,” Wilson wrinkles his nose, “Did something die in here?”

“Pride… Hopes… Dreams,” House lists off his fingers, “But that’s just the remnants of your last divorce, from when you were staying over.”

Wilson frowns down at the mostly empty bottle of whisky that House is holding on his lap. “Party for one?”

House raises the bottle at him in a toast, “Until you decided to crash.”

“This is how you’re spending your vacation days?”

“I’m taking some ‘me’ time. Self-care is important.”

“Yes. Living in squalor, drinking liquor for breakfast: you’re a picture of mental health,” Wilson glares down at the slice of cheese pizza he’s just stepped in from an open box on the floor. He balances on one foot and waggles the other around, trying to shake it off.

House reaches for his vicodin bottle on the coffee table and washes down a few pills with a slug of whisky. “I’m dandy.”

Wilson sighs laboriously, “Alright, let’s have it. You’re depressed because both of your latest cases are solved and the excitement is over. You’re jonesing for your next fix,” he pitches his theory with the usual theatricality.

When House just stares at him, stony-eyed, he tries again.

“Okay, maybe it’s a little early for that. Which means it must have something to do with something else that’s been on your mind: the sex dream you had about Chase.”

Sensing that he’s getting warmer when House looks away from him, Wilson takes his hypothesis a step further.

“You’re worried that now that he’s feeling better, he’s going to notice something, and that working with him will be awkward,” he guesses.

House’s evasiveness is telling him that he’s on the right track, but that he hasn’t quite hit the nail on the head yet.

“Or…” Wilson’s eyes widen at a thought, “You’re depressed _because_ he’s feeling better. You don’t want him to be discharged.”

House doesn’t blink, and Wilson knows he’s nailed it. House’s tells are few, and only Wilson is attuned enough to recognize them, but from Wilson’s perspective House may as well be holding up a neon sign that says that he’s right.

“House, that’s actually awful. You know how sick he’s been; you can’t be wishing he’d stay that way just so you can harass him at all hours. Unless…”

Wilson studies House, who is staying perfectly still with a mask-like expression on his face. Wilson’s mind suddenly explodes in realization.

“Oh my God. You _like_ him, don’t you?” Wilson says in astonishment. “You want him to still be sick so you can keep spending time with him. You’re afraid that if he’s better, he won’t need you anymore.”

“Oh, shut up. You sound like the nosy neighbor in one of my soap operas,” House snaps in annoyance, “Go jump off a cliff.”

“You liiike him,” Wilson grins, feeling giddy with excitement. He’s already imagining what a double-date with House and Chase would look like. Wilson would bring Debbie from Accounting, and House would dump his shot of bourbon on the Bombe Alaska flambé they’d ordered, horrifying her. Chase would be the one to snuff the flames out with the drinks menu and then smack House upside the head with it, before calmly proceeding to eat the charred dessert.

“This is incredible,” he says, perfectly able to picture it in his mundane little fantasy, “You’ve found someone who’s perfect for you. He’s got everything you want: looks, brains, and the ability to deal with your crap. You’d make a great couple.”

“Sure, Chase and I should start picking out china patterns. Your romantic advice is to get married first, and find out you hate each other later, right?”

“You already know him. And you definitely don’t hate him.”

House makes a face. “He’s annoying. He does annoying things.”

“You’re annoying. He knows how to put up with you. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“He _believes_ in Heaven! He’s a moron!”

“He’s smart, and you know it. You listen to him, and you hardly listen to anyone. You actually respect his intelligence.”

“He reads sci-fi novels, and watches stupid movies, and has stupid hair. He owns plants,” House protests.

“You really like him,” Wilson beams.

“No I don’t. I don’t like you, either.”

“You should tell him.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” House utters in disgust, “I’d have to get in line behind every single woman and gay man he’s ever met.”

Wilson huffs out an incredulous breath, “Oh, come on – don’t play coy, House. He’s been waiting around for you for four years.”

House looks at him like he’s just soiled the living room rug. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re seriously telling me that _you_ , the most observant man on earth, don’t know about Chase’s schoolboy crush on you?” Wilson asks slowly, eyebrows raised high.

“He’s a suck-up. Kissing my ass is just his modus operandi,” House dismisses him passionately.

“Not so much, these days. But that first year when it was just the two of you, he practically worshipped the ground you walked on. He turned down about a hundred date offers just on the off-chance you’d think he wasn’t available.”

“How would you know?” House demands.

“Through the power of observation. And because I’m friends with a lot of the nurses he shot down.”

“By ‘friends’ I’m guessing you mean ‘women who you struck out with’.”

“Be that as it may, my point is that he likes you. He’s not a kid with a crush anymore, either. He knows you, warts and all.”

“I really hate the phrase ‘warts and all’,” House takes a pensive sip from his whisky bottle, draining it. “Warts are disgusting.”

“Chase likes you. You like him. Ask him on a date.”

“I don’t _date_. And I don’t like Chase.”

“Seriously, House – you should go into work tomorrow and see him before he leaves. He keeps asking about you.”

“He needs to go home and take care of himself. He doesn’t need to be thinking about going on _dates_ ,” House says bleakly.

Wilson is so shocked by this admission of concern that he’s momentarily speechless. “Maybe not. But it would be good for him to know that somebody cares about him.”

“Nobody cares.”

“You do. If you don’t go see him, you’ll regret it.”

“I’ll see plenty of him when he’s back at work.”

“Look, you don’t have to say anything. Just… tell him that you hope he feels better. Even if you don’t mean it, it would be a start.”

“Of course I want him to feel better! He’s my patient,” House snaps, “and my employee; the longer he’s off sick, the longer I have to put up with Foreman’s power trips, and Cameron crying and knitting him mittens.”

“And you like having him around?” Wilson says frankly.

House doesn’t immediately scoff at this. He must be incredibly drunk.

Wilson studies House, who looks despondent. “Just be there tomorrow.”

House stares off, still clutching the empty bottle to his chest. Finally, he says, “My porno is over. Debbie needs to do Dallas again, and she can’t while you’re here. Get lost.”

Wilson knows House well enough to take the hint. “Okay. Goodnight, House.”

House’s only reply involves cranking up the volume as the porno starts over.

“Enjoy the movie,” Wilson says as he heads for the door, “House? I’ll see you tomorrow. Talk to Chase.”

*

Chase has never given tremendous thought to what his patients have to go through after they’ve been discharged. As long as they’ve been diagnosed and prescribed the right course of treatment, he’s done his job. He’s suddenly feeling a lot more empathetic towards them, now that he’s discovered what the transition actually entails. The sheer amount of medications he’s going to have to keep track of is dizzying, and he’s a doctor.

He’s been delivered a large bag containing his prescriptions so that he can self-administer his daily bucketful of pills at home. He’d spent some time this afternoon sorting them into a pill organizer out of boredom, and to save him some time later on. The organizer is labeled for each day of the week, each slot containing a colorful assortment of tablets: oblong blue acyclovir, round pink ribavirin, elliptical white boceprevir, purple capsule-shaped telaprevir, round orange prednisone, and clear golden capsules of Vitamin A.They have to be taken at different times throughout the day in specific combinations, some daily and some not. The interferon comes in liquid form, which he’ll mete out in thrice-weekly injections. Also liquid is a bottle of cough syrup and a ventolin solution to be inhaled through a nebulizer twice a day, in addition to the inhaler House prescribed. 

He’ll be checking his white count regularly with testing kits he’s been provided (one of the perks of being a doctor). He’s also been asked to keep a daily log of vitals for the first two weeks following his discharge. The joys of being a patient apparently don’t stop at the hospital doors.

He has upcoming outpatient appointments that he’ll need to mark down in his calendar, and a home visit with a physical therapist a week from today. He’s actually looking forward to physical therapy; he hates being stationary. Despite the louche impression he gives while leaning back in his chair at work, he’s actually a very physically active person in his free time. He likes going to the gym, taking walks, and playing sports. The repetitive action of activities like swimming and running are a way to zone out and switch his mind off, sometimes leading him to sudden epiphanies like House has. He can’t wait to be allowed to exercise properly, instead of just walking laps around the hospital and tugging at resistance bands while sitting in bed.

He probably won’t be doing much in the way of physical activity, at least not at first. Technically, he’s supposed to be on bed rest, which he takes to mean mostly hanging around on his couch. If he’s being honest with himself, that’s probably about as much as he can handle for the time being. He’s much better, but still not entirely well; he’d spent parts of the morning coughing until his back hurt and taking frequent pulls off his inhaler. He must have looked rather pitiful, because his nurse friend Trisha brought him a cup of his favorite peppermint tea from the nurses’ private stash. She also dropped off a signed card on behalf of the nurses who have cared for him throughout his illness; they’d scribbled little messages in pretty, loopy handwriting, telling him to rest up and get better. Ridiculously touched, he mumbled a very genuine thank you and wondered if there was something nice he could do for them in return.

He still has some time to kill before he’s officially discharged and, after sorting out two weeks’ worth of medications, he’s left twiddling his thumbs. He’s already packed the few personal items he’ll be taking home with him and shoved the rest into his locker. He’d managed to stuff most of the clothes that Cameron brought him into his messenger bag, and he’s dressed in the same outfit he’d been wearing upon his admission. A glance at the wall-clock tells him that soon, in less than two hours, he’ll be back out in the world like a regular person.

He wonders how he’s going to entertain himself for two weeks in his apartment, especially since he’s not supposed to be leaving the house. He’ll have to have groceries delivered for tomorrow, and order takeout tonight. He’s got a stack of books to get through, and DVD box-sets of the first three seasons of _Lost_. Probably no social contact, though. The unfortunate fact is that there’s no one he can call who wants to hear about the nightmare he’s been living for the past few weeks. He rarely speaks to his mates back home anymore, so it seems unfair to depress them with his fun stories about being near death in the hospital. Here in New Jersey, he hasn’t made any friends outside of work (working sixty- to eighty-hour work weeks means little socializing in his free time), so apart from his workmates, he doesn’t really have anyone to talk to.

He’s already said his goodbyes to Cuddy, Wilson, Cameron, and Foreman. Cuddy brought him a discharge form, Wilson dropped by to share a plate of the French fries Chase likes from the cafeteria, Cameron gave him more hugs, and Foreman imparted strict instructions to follow his medication regime so he can rejoin the team as soon as possible, since Chase not being around meant more of House’s harassment would inevitably land on Cameron and Foreman.

House is still on vacation, from what he’s been told. Maybe he really did go somewhere, and is sitting on a tropical beach in a Hawaiian shirt, mixing vicodin into his cocktails. Chase wonders how long he’ll be gone for; he supposes he’ll find out when he’s back at work.

Chase lies back and plays with the elevation of the head of the bed; it’s going to be strange to sleep in a bed that doesn’t move up and down, now that he’s gotten used to one that does. He flips on the television to distract himself; the button on the remote is stuck, and it’s set to a channel that plays the reality TV trash that House often watches. With the sound of the Kardashians getting foot massages playing in the background, Chase closes his eyes and waits to go home. 

*

House stands in front of the revolving doors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, leaning heavily on his cane. Heavy snowflakes flurry down around him in the radiance of the lamp-lit parking lot. A blanket of white covers the walkway in front of him, smudged with black footprints and wheelchair tracks. He’s temporarily alone.

He’s not even sure what he’s doing here, and still hasn’t decided whether to go inside or turn tail and head back to the solitude and safety of his car. The only thing he’s sure of is that he blames Wilson for this temporary lapse of his sanity and that, if coming here was a mistake, he’ll find a way to make him pay for it.

He allows himself another moment and then exhales a great visible puff of breath. Making his mind up, he canes his way through the doors and into the lobby.

He’d avoided work again today, so his presence here will be conspicuous. He plans to make a beeline for the ward on the second floor, and hopefully avoid all notable busybodies along the way.

“House!” Cameron calls, almost as soon as he sets foot through the door, “You came! We thought you weren’t going to.”

“I’m just here to pick up a few things. I’m still on vacation,” he says briskly, walking faster in the opposite direction from where she’d come, in hopes she won’t follow him.

Predictably, Cameron changes course to scurry along beside him. “Oh. Well, Chase is about to leave. Aren’t you going to go say goodbye to him?”

“Why? I’ve seen more than enough of him. What does he want me to do, buy him a cake?”

“It would mean a lot to him,” Cameron says earnestly, “He’ll be off work for at least two weeks. Even Foreman stopped by to wish him a speedy recovery.”

“Fine. I’ll pop by his room before I leave if it will make you go away.”

Cameron smiles happily and nods at him, before turning on her heel and heading off in the opposite direction.

House is about to board the elevator when he sees Foreman passing by as though on a mission, clutching his clipboard determinedly. Foreman catches sight of him and slows down, giving him a circumspect look.

“If you’re here to see Chase, you just missed him,” Foreman informs him, “He left to go get a cab.”

“I’m not,” House replies, “I forgot something up in the office.”

He turns around and heads quickly for the door.

“I guess you must not need it, then!” Foreman shouts after him. House ignores him.

Making his way across the parking lot, House curses to himself under his breath, “Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

Coming within view of the taxi-rank, he catches sight of an unmistakable head of blond hair in the distance. Chase is standing on the sidewalk, dressed in his black winter coat with a bright red scarf tucked into his collar, hands stuffed inside his pockets for warmth. Under the glow of the lot-lamps, snowflakes cling to his hair, which is blowing around slightly in the wind.

House limps faster towards him, his cane sliding perilously in the slush. “Hey!”

Chase doesn’t look over, although some of the other people waiting for taxis do. Getting closer, House tries again.

“Hey, Blondie!”

Chase looks up sharply and meets eyes with him. His look of surprise turns into a bright grin.

“What are you doing here?” he calls, as House closes the distance between them.

“I wanted to make sure you don’t ruin all my good work by standing out in the snow like an idiot and finishing yourself off. What part of ‘recovering from pneumonia’ do you think involves freezing your ass off?”

House is approaching him for some further telling-off when suddenly his cane hits an ice patch and goes flying out of his hand. He’s about to face-plant on cold cement when suddenly he’s being gripped around the shoulders and his weight is being held up by two surprisingly strong arms. 

“Oh God, House, are you alright?” Chase gasps, instinctively pulling him close.

“Don’t blaspheme,” House replies, voice muffled against the scratchy wool of Chase’s coat, where his face has landed, “That’ll be ten Our Fathers.”

Regaining his balance, House still has some of his weight pressed up against Chase. Chase’s arms are around him and, though House had been too shaken to notice at first, he’d also thrown his own arms around Chase. They’re standing there in the parking lot holding onto each other as snowflakes flutter down around them, seemingly in some sort of stalemate over who’s going to let go first.

The wind picks up suddenly, sending snow swirling past them and cutting into the skin of House’s bare hands. Chase shivers against him, and House reflexively tightens his grip.

“You’re cold,” he says, voice still slightly muffled against Chase’s shoulder. He’s reluctant to move from this position, in the event that the closest he’ll ever get to dealing with his Chase issues is this awkward hug. But Chase is shivering. “Come on. Let me give you a ride home.”

“I called a taxi,” Chase says, finally easing off House and taking a small step back. He bends down to pick up House’s cane for him.

“So what? My fares are competitive.”

Chase smiles, and looks like he’s thinking about it. “I don’t know… The driver’s on his way, he should be here any moment. I already gave my card information.”

“Let him sit in the parking lot. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay for it. Just get in the car.”

Chase waffles for a few seconds before following House the short distance to his car in its nearby parking space. He opens the passenger side door and climbs in.

“You want to listen to the radio?” House asks, turning the heater on. He immediately cringes at the excruciating question. Why the hell is he suddenly a gangly sixteen year old, acting awkward and nervous around Chase of all people?

Chase at least has the decency to look at him like he’s lost his marbles. “Sure.”

They spend the rest of the journey in silence, listening to House’s favorite classic rock station. Chase, fidgety as ever, drums his fingers against his thigh and looks out the window. House tries not to look at him from his peripheral vision.

They arrive at Chase’s apartment complex fifteen minutes later; House pulls into a handicapped space and turns off the engine. He resists a horrifying impulse to go open Chase’s door for him.

“Okay. See you later,” House says in a tight voice. When Chase doesn’t move, he carries on. “Adios. Sayonara. Au Revoir. Catch you on the flip side.”

“Do you want to come in for a coffee?”

“Okay. Sure.”

Chase’s apartment looks the same as it had during his last visit, but this time he’s noticing new things about it. Like how there’s only one video game controller that looks like it gets any use, and how the plants look extremely well cared-for, like they’re some sort of stand-in for company. The first thing Chase does is water them and give them a brief inspection.

The living room is a bit of a mess from how he’d left it; a pillow and blanket are bunched at one end of the couch, and the coffee table is littered with crumpled tissues and dirty cups and mugs. House’s untouched coffee that Chase had made for him three weeks ago is growing a green film of mold.

Chase starts clearing up, and House watches him for a moment; it’s funny to see him in his natural habitat, after being so used to only seeing him at the hospital either as a doctor or now, as a patient.

“Am I allowed to prepare the coffee, or are you still worried that I’ll infect you?” Chase asks when House has seated himself on the sofa.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll have a beer. I know there are a few in the fridge from Foreman’s field trip report.”

Chase pads off to the kitchen and returns with a beer for House and a glass of orange juice for himself.

“Can’t you just have a beer? You look like a four year old,” House complains.

“Because I’m drinking juice?” Chase looks incredulous.

“Yes. The only thing missing is the sippy cup. It’s almost nine o’clock at night.”

Chase takes a sip from his glass, “More beers for you, I guess. You’ll like it – it’s Australian.”

House grumbles under his breath that being Australian isn’t exactly an endorsement for things that he likes. Taking a swig from the bottle, however, he is forced to admit that there’s nothing to complain about: the Aussies know their beer, apparently.

“So. What are you going to fill your time with now that you’re no longer an invalid?” House asks casually. “Lame books? Geeky movies? Chaining yourself to the bedposts?”

“Tonight I was thinking geeky movie. You could stay, if you want,” Chase puts forth.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Nice of you to offer, but I think I’d rather scoop my eyeballs out with a dull spoon than watch a film starring elves and dwarves.”

“Why don’t you choose something, then?”

This is how they end up watching _Monster Jam: Freestyle From Las Vegas_ ; Chase has never seen a monster truck competition before. Not for the first time, House is floored by his lack of appreciation for American culture.

They order pizza, since Chase doesn’t have any food that hasn’t gone off. House orders a large double-cheese with pepperoni and stuffed crust, and Chase gets a medium veggie with salad on the side. While devouring slices, House engrosses himself in the sporting event, only stealing the occasional glance at Chase sitting beside him in the dark, his pale face bathed in blue light from the television.

“This is awful,” Chase decides, five minutes in. They’re watching the Carolina Crusher pop a wheelie and land on a row of parked cars, to the ecstasy of a roaring crowd.

“Give it some time. You haven’t seen Grave Digger yet.”

Things carry on this way for a while; something cool happens onscreen, and Chase tells him how stupid it is. They’re coming up to the truck racing segment when, out of nowhere, House’s leg cramps painfully; he grips a hand around his thigh, massaging it with his fingers. It passes so quickly that Chase might not have even noticed, if not for the fact that House’s hand, when he puts it back down, lands halfway over Chase’s.

Chase doesn’t move a muscle, and neither does House. Chase is either suffering from paralytic hand numbness, or he’s pretending he hasn’t noticed. House willfully stares at the television as monster trucks zoom around the track and batter each other into walls, but the only thing he’s actually aware of is Chase’s slightly cool fingers beneath his warm ones.

More than ten minutes go by without either of them moving or speaking; it’s beginning to feel like they’ll break some sort of spell. Then, something unexpected happens; Chase’s fingers spread apart to push their way between House’s, locking them together. House is about to rip his hand back and smack Chase upside the head with it, before informing him that he is _not_ his high school girlfriend, and they will _not_ be going to the prom, but before he can, Chase is kissing him.

Chase’s lips are incredibly soft when they press against House’s in a chaste kiss. House doesn’t stop him, and kisses back. It’s followed by another, then another. Chase lays a palm over House’s jaw and the kiss deepens; yes, Chase is kissing him for real now, using his tongue. House’s heart pounds in his chest like it might explode; he hears the crowd cheer on the television. His eyes fly open.

“Gotta go,” House launches himself off the couch like a torpedo, feeling dizzy despite the fact that he’s only on his second beer, “Work in the morning, bright and early. One of my staff is off sick, so. You know. Somebody’s got to be there for the dying people.”

Chase looks bewildered. “House, wait—”

“Bye!” he shouts, bolting for the door as fast as his cane can carry him. He slips out and slams it shut behind him. 


	18. Chapter 18

“I thought you weren’t at work today?” queries Wilson in surprise, when House plunks himself down in the chair across from him in his office the following morning.

Wilson had been at his desk replying to emails when House showed up still dressed for the outdoors in his heavy coat, despite supposedly still being on vacation. From the cagey look on his face, Wilson isn’t expecting to hear what comes out of his mouth.

“He kissed me,” House monotones.

Wilson sits up in his chair, a giddy grin spreading over his face. "House, that's fantastic! Why aren't you over there now, basking in the afterglow?"  
  
House shakes his head. “It was a mistake. I shouldn't have let it happen."  
  
"Are you serious?" Wilson balks, standing up at his desk in indignation, “ _Really_?"

"Oh God, here it comes," House groans.  
  
"House, he kissed you! He basically rolled out the red carpet for you to take things to the next level!"

“Not interested. He isn't my type.”

House had only ever had one type before: her name was Stacy. She'd happened to worm her way in at just the right moment. Other than that, most of House's romantic relationships have been charged to his MasterCard.

Wilson grouses, “What is he, too smart? Too good-looking?”

“Geez, if you love him so much, why don’t _you_ ask him out?”

“He wants _you_ , you dolt! Besides, I’d never go after the person my best friend likes.”

“Don’t let me stand in your way,” House snorts, “And to answer your question, yes, he _is_ too good-looking. People who look like him tend to have more problems than the rest of us schmucks,” he shakes his head, looking away. “It was a bad idea. I stopped it in the nick of time."  
  
Wilson folds his arms and levels House with a pointed stare. "You stopped out of cowardice and fear of getting hurt. You shouldn’t have. Not every relationship is going to end like you and Stacy."  
  
House glares to let him know that it was a cheap shot to mention her name. "Chase is nothing like Stacy. He's a messed up kid with a barrel of issues. I can't give him what he wants."

"Have you bothered asking what he wants, or do you just assume that you know what that is?"  
  
"He needs someone to give him attention. And therapy. Lots and lots of therapy."

"Why can't you give him attention? Because you're too busy watching porn and playing air guitar with your cane?"  
  
House mock-claps. "If that was a euphemism, bravo, Wilson."

Wilson points a finger at him, "You might actually have a chance at happiness if you’d be willing let someone in. You can't go running away because you're afraid of letting them down or losing them. If you do that, you've already lost."  
  
"I've already got a good thing going with my DVD player and the curtained-off area at the back of the video shop. And have you even thought about the hookers? Who's going to help put them through college?"

"Yes, why give all that up," Wilson remarks drolly. "Who needs a person you actually care about when you could be paying for hollow, depressing sex with a girl named Cinnamon, who may or may not give you crabs?"

House waves a hand in dismissal, “Crabs are no big deal. Gives me an excuse to trim the hedges."

"No more pep talks," Wilson decides, sitting back down in his swivel-chair, "Either you look at what's right in front of you and grab it, or things stay the same. You need to make a choice."

Wilson reopens his laptop and pretends to go back to his emails. He stares at his inbox and waits for House to say something or leave.  
  
"He's pissed at me," House says after a moment, "I kinda walked out on him."  
  
"So make it up to him. Do something nice. A purely unselfish gesture."

"So I can selfishly get him to like me again?"

Wilson smiles. "Don't overthink it. Just show him you care."

“I don’t.”

“Okay. Good luck, House.”

*

It’s one in the morning and someone is banging Chase’s door down.

He’d been in bed, absorbed in the penultimate chapter of the book he’s been reading. Aggrieved at having to put it down, he leaps up and hurries to the door, hopefully before any of his neighbors can pinpoint where the noise is coming from before calling the police to complain.

House is standing in the hallway wearing his long black overcoat and a nonchalant expression, his cane still raised and ready for more door-banging. He’s carrying a greasy-looking brown paper bag that smells like curry. At the sight of Chase, a sly grin spreads over his face.

“I knew you’d be awake,” he says, sauntering in uninvited.

“It’s late,” Chase says without inflection, as House tosses his coat on a chair and stamps snow on the floor. He stands there in his t-shirt and boxer-shorts, waiting for House to explain what he’s doing here.

“I missed our little nighttime conversations, and I figured you’d still be up,” House says casually, “It’s not like you have to be at work tomorrow. I checked with your boss.”

Chase crosses his arms. “So you thought you’d wake up all my neighbors in the middle of the night on a Tuesday?”

“I brought takeout,” House deflects, holding the bag up as a peace-offering. “Indian place on the corner of West and Third. According to Wilson, it’s the best place in town. Well, the best place that’s open at one in the morning.”

Chase regards the bag. “You hate Indian food,” he wrinkles his nose in suspicion. “Any time I order it at work you make me eat in the hallway.”

“Yes, because it smells disgusting, and tastes even worse. And here I am with a whole bag of it, so it must be that I’m willing to suffer through it.” _Because you like it_ is the implication.

Chase wonders when exactly he slipped through the wormhole and into the alternate dimension where House notices the things he does and doesn’t like. He takes a slight step forward, still leaving some distance between them.

“You left in a hurry last night,” he says mildly.

“Yeah, after my twenty-eight year old employee slipped me the tongue. In case you need that translated, I’m a lot older than you, and I’m your boss.”

“If you think that makes me kissing you inappropriate, then why are you here now?”

House doesn’t answer right away. He has that unreadable look on his face that Chase finds infuriating. Not feeling like waiting in awkward silence to be rejected, Chase decides to pick up the baton.

“Maybe you’re right. It would be inappropriate for you to date me. Probably goes against hospital policy; Cuddy would be tearing her hair out. And you’re always such a stickler for the rules…”

House’s expression flickers into an amused smile. “Who says I want to date you? I was just hoping to get in your pants.”

“And you know what a slut I am…”

“Exactly.” 

They both suppress smiles, and some of the tension eases out of Chase. Still wearing the hint of a grin, House looks at him with something akin to sadness in his eyes.

“I seriously have no intention of dating you, just so we’re clear.”

Chase blows out a sigh, “Okay. Whatever you say, House.”

“Oh, don’t give me that placating crap,” House snaps, shifting gears to annoyance, “Why would I date you? You basically have ‘needy’ stamped across your forehead. I have no desire whatsoever to hold you while you sob about your crappy childhood.”

“Who says I want to date _you_?” Chase retorts, getting angry, “You’re a miserable old git. You think I’m stupid for believing in God? You believe you _are_ God! You play with people’s lives like they exist for your entertainment. Dating you would be like strapping myself to the table of a mad scientist. You’d probably experiment on me in my sleep!”

“Oh, please,” House scoffs, “Who are you trying to fool? You’ve been pining away like a lovesick schoolgirl.”

Chase blushes furiously, “Well, I’m a glutton for punishment, aren’t I? Everyone says so.”

“You must be. Only a masochist would want to be involved with me,” House chastises, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I guess I just really am that stupid.”

“Looks like.”

Neither of them speaks for a moment. House watches in silence as Chase paces a few steps and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead only for it to flop back down instantaneously. He lets a breath out through his nose and looks at House in regard, expression shifting from nervous tension to curiosity.

“Why are you here, really?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “You didn’t come here in the middle of the night just to tell me how pathetic I am in person. That could have waited until I was back at work.”

“I’m here to tell you that I’m not firing you, in case you were worried. I’m even willing to forget it ever happened.”

“I’m not,” Chase replies snappily, “If you want to reject me, go ahead. Just tell me the real reason, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Just one? Because I’ve got plenty. The foremost being that you only acted on your silly little crush because you’ve been through a trauma, and you’re seeking out physical connection. You don’t know what you’re doing,” House accuses.

“I know what I want. I have for a long time. And now I think you want it, too.”

“I don’t,” House assures him, “but even if I did, you aren’t in a fit state to be making decisions like this right now. You almost died.”

“But I didn’t, because you saved me. I never doubted you would.”

House snorts incredulously, “Then you’re even dumber than I thought.”

“Why is it stupid that I believe in you?”

“Why aren’t you more upset about this?” House wants to know, changing tack, “Next time you pray to God, why don’t you ask him why he’s such an asshole? You’re not even thirty years old, and you nearly lost everything because of some stupid virus you picked up at random. I had to listen to you screaming in pain and watch you hallucinate for days on end. Half the time I wasn’t even sure if you’d know who I was when you woke up. And you’ve barely registered an emotion about it.”

“I’m sorry I’m not acting how you think I’m supposed to,” Chase shrugs minutely, a touch of guilt on his face, “The worst of it I barely remember.”

House explodes, “Maybe _you_ don’t remember, but your body was shutting down and your brain was turning to mush and you almost _died_ , Chase!”

“And you _care_ ,” Chase says, eyes shining with total conviction, “And I care about you.”

House is about to protest when suddenly Chase’s arms are around him, face pressed against House’s shoulder. House searches for something glib to say but only gets out, “You better not cry on my shirt.”

“I’m not,” Chase sniffles.

They stand there in Chase’s living room like this for a long moment, House stiff as a board with Chase clinging onto him. Slowly, House lifts his arms to return the hug. He lets his cheek rest against the side of Chase’s forehead and murmurs, “You stupid kid. I don’t care about you. I don’t.”

Chase grips him harder, like he might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. House finds himself settling a hand on Chase’s back and patting in a slow rhythm, feeling him swallow and breathe against him. He’s warm and solid and stronger than you’d ever guess, to look at him. He smells like he just got out of the shower; his hair is damp against House’s cheek.

“Okay, that’s enough,” House says at last, gently pushing him back. Chase’s eyes are bright, but there’s no hard evidence of tears or snot. House stares into them, willing him to listen. “This is a bad idea, for a million reasons. You get that, right? Starting with me. I’m never going to change. You know that.”

“I like you the way you are,” Chase says quietly, bowing his head to let his bangs half-cover his face, “I’ve always liked you.”

House rakes a hand over his chin, shaking his head and sighing despairingly. He collects himself, and says, “Look, I’m not good at...” he makes an encompassing gesture, “ _this_. Lousy at it, in fact. I won’t remember your birthday, or do anything thoughtful, or even be nice to you. Sound tempting?”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, House. I’m just telling you that I like you. And you might not remember my birthday, but you remember my blood type.”

This brings them to another pressing item on House’s agenda.

“You made me your emergency contact,” he states, letting it hang in the air.

Chase had been wondering when House would find out, and what he’d do when he did.

“Yeah. After my Dad died.”

“Don’t you still have living grandparents?”

“On my Mum’s side, but I haven’t spoken to them in years. There was a falling out between them and my Dad, and somehow I got caught up in it.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?” Chase returns bluntly, “You’re the perfect candidate. You know my medical history, allergies, and current medications. You see me nearly every day, so if something was wrong, you’d notice. And you’re the person I’ve known the longest, here in the states.”

House looks like he isn’t sure whether to be flattered or pissed off. “You think I want to be responsible for pulling the plug next time one of your weird sex games goes awry?”

Chase had thought about the possibility with pragmatism. “I trust that you’d be unsentimental enough to know when it was time.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me about this, or ask if I’d agree to it?”

“Nope,” Chase replies with a small smirk.

House is looking at him with a wondering expression, his blue eyes clouded. Carefully, he reaches out to lay a rough hand against Chase’s cheek, studying his face, “You really are a sneaky little bastard, aren’t you?” It sounds like a compliment.

With House’s hand still cupping his face, Chase leans in and lets his mouth hover a centimeter away from House’s, close enough to feel his breath but not touching. He lets House be the one to close the distance and go in for a kiss.

*

House and Chase are making out like teenagers on the couch in Chase’s living room. What started off gentle had quickly gotten deeper and hungrier with every passing second, jaws working and fingers digging into each others’ shoulders. They’re pulling at each other’s clothes and touching each other frantically, as though they’re working against a clock.

They’d started kissing standing up, but House’s leg had given protest and Chase, feeling him wobble, had taken the initiative to navigate them over to the sofa. Refusing to break the kiss, Chase banged his shin against the coffee table and knocked something over in the process, then pushed House down and semi-landed on him, knocking the wind out of both of them; it wasn’t the most graceful transition, but it had gotten them where they are. House is against the armrest with Chase straddling him, not even caring that Chase’s TV remote is occasionally flipping channels at random from somewhere under his ass.

House holds both sides of Chase’s face to keep his hair out of the way; Chase’s hands are currently fisting the back of House’s t-shirt. Their mouths move together rhythmically; House can’t remember being this blown away by a kiss before, and somehow it’s not even surreal that it’s Chase who’s kissing him. He’d always suspected that Chase would be a good kisser, and he is – damn good, in fact. He’s either had a lot of practice, or maybe they teach kissing as an elective in those fancy private schools down in Australia. Probably, he’s a natural and it’s just one of the many blessings Chase is too dense to even realize he has. It doesn’t matter; all that matters is that he doesn’t stop. House could get addicted to this; right now he’d take it over a swimming pool full of vicodin. Why they haven’t been doing this every day for the past four years is suddenly beyond him; it’s like discovering that his Corvette is capable of time-travel like the DeLorean from _Back to the Future_ , and he’s just been wasting time driving it like a regular sports car.

House is brought back to reality when he detects that Chase’s breathing is becoming slightly labored, reminding him that Chase was only discharged from the hospital the day before; it doesn’t sound good and, for a fraction of a second, he’s almost wishing he’d brought his stethoscope. Chase isn’t dying anymore, but he’s not exactly healthy, either; their make-out session is probably restricting airflow to his messed-up lungs.

 _Whatever_ , part of House’s brain argues, _he’ll live_. _Probably._

 _He’s supposed to be resting_ , a righteous little voice in House’s head reproaches; it sounds suspiciously like Cameron. He steals another minute before feeling guilty enough to let the medical professional in him take over. Chase’s last x-ray showed a fairly substantial amount of fluid still in his lungs; he simply isn’t up for the kind of physical exertion that House would dearly love to put him through. Chase isn’t slowing down, but someone has to, so for once in his life House will have to be the boring grownup of the situation. The last thing he needs is to explain to Cuddy why he’s got an employee who’s DOA from choking to death on his tongue.

House breaks the kiss and pulls back, meeting eyes with him, “Hey, hey, take it easy. That wheezing sound you’re making? Not a turn-on. Might be time to hit the brakes.”

Chase blinks in surprise, then moves to resume kissing him, “I’m fine.”

House dodges his lips, “Hey. I’m serious.” For emphasis, he forcibly removes the hands from his shirt.

Not persuaded, Chase kisses below his ear instead and whimpers, “House, please…I don’t want to stop.”

House uses the remains of his willpower to push Chase off, “Not gonna happen.”

“You _don’t_ want to have sex?” Chase pouts, visibly disappointed.

House rolls his eyes; Chase is half in his lap in just his plaid boxers and a white t-shirt that’s tight enough to be an undershirt. Like the angels that he probably believes in, he’s a study in pink and gold; gold locks falling in his face, fine golden hairs dusting his bare legs and forearms, skin all glowy and pink from arousal. His full lips are even fuller and pinker than usual, burned red from House’s stubble. It’s literally the dumbest question House has ever heard.

“For your sake, dumbass, not because I don’t want to! You’re recovering. You need to go slow.”

The pout becomes almost comical. “Four years isn’t slow enough?”

“I meant now. Physically.”

Pout deepening into a frown, Chase sits up; he seems to be trying to outthink his situation. He almost manages by accident when he wriggles slightly, eliciting an involuntary sound from House – part-yelp, part-moan, part-warning. With another little hip-thrust and renewed fortitude, Chase kisses into House’s neck.

“What if I let you do all the heavy lifting?” he proposes, “I could owe you, later on.”

“Nope. Sorry, but sick people don’t get me hot,” House swats at him in a half-hearted attempt to shoo him off, “Which is really too bad, since I work in a hospital.”

Chase pulls back a fraction, still kissing intermittently, “I’m not sick anymore, so –“ _kiss_ – “maybe you’re just worried about me –“ _kiss, kiss_ – “because you actually _like me_.”

House scowls, “Now you’re really killing the mood.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Since when does it matter to you how I feel?” 

“Since I almost had to start interviewing for your replacement. I hate breaking in new employees. You’re much easier to work with when I already know all your weaknesses.”

Chase’s eyes – more pale green than blue up close – gleam merrily, “What are mine? You can tell me. I know you get off on it.”

House can’t help but grin wickedly, “Don’t get me started. You’re all soft underbelly.”

Chase reburies his face in House’s neck, “And you’re all sharp stick.”

House bites his lip to stifle a groan. Of course, Chase would have to turn out to be a nympho behind closed doors; the handcuffs probably should have been a tip-off. House’s promise to himself not to let Chase overdo it under his supervision is already coming to bite him in the ass. Chase’s breath is warm against his throat and a sure hand is wandering up his good thigh; House is seriously rethinking his Hippocratic Oath when Chase abruptly turns away and begins to cough, steeling his resolve.

House takes him firmly by the shoulders and holds him at arms’ length, “Yuck, get off. I don’t want your germs.”

“I’m not contagious,” Chase maintains sullenly, but seems to accept the rejection this time. Trying to cheer himself up, he considers the bag of takeout. “What did you order?"  
  
"Not a clue. I know you like the stuff that burns the roof of your mouth off, so I asked for a variety of whatever was spiciest."

They open the bag and unload takeout containers onto the coffee table. Chase retrieves some plates and cutlery from the kitchen, but mostly they end up eating straight from the boxes. House devours some lightly spiced fried chicken wings (the only edible-looking dish on the menu) and Chase goes back and forth between the various containers, sampling everything with enthusiasm. House thinks his taste buds must extremely dull for his tongue not to be on fire; just the smell of it is making House’s eyes water.

Once they’ve finished their late-night dinner, Chase packs up the boxes and puts the leftovers away in the fridge. He comes back with a mug of peppermint tea for himself and an Australian laager for House. Handing him the cold bottle, Chase slips down beside him and casually gives him a kiss on the cheek. It catches House more off guard than anything else that they’ve done that night.

“What was that for?” House touches his cheek inadvertently.

With a shrug of his shoulder, Chase answers, “For bringing me dinner. For coming over. For saving my life. Take your pick.” 

*

“I’ll take the couch if you want the bed,” Chase offers. It’s almost three in the morning, and House is too drowsy to drive home.

“Not a chance. You need to sleep in a bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“But your leg…”

“You can pay for my massage therapist. Or I can just call a cab.”

Chase falters, not seeming to like this option much. He suggests, “Why don’t you just sleep in the bedroom with me? There’s plenty of room. It’s a lot more comfortable than the couch.”

House’s eyes waver between the couch and Chase, who’s looking at him imploringly.

“Fine. I’ll sleep in there, as long as you aren’t talking or kicking or coughing, or anything else that’s going to keep me awake. I’m old. I need a good night’s sleep.”

House follows Chase to his bedroom, which is fairly nondescript at first glance. There’s a tall chest of drawers, a desk in the corner with a fairly elaborate computer setup with two monitors, the notorious bedside table, and a queen-sized bed covered in pale blue sheets and a navy blue comforter. The closet is open wide enough for House to see clothes, most of them familiar, hanging inside. A spare white lab coat is draped on the back of the closet door.

He shimmies out of his jeans, and now both of them are just wearing boxer-shorts and t-shirts. He almost feels like he’s attending a sleepover; since he isn’t planning on having sex with Chase tonight and all they’ll be doing is sleeping, he supposes that he sort of is.

House lies down in Chase’s bed, head sinking back into firm pillows. He pulls the blanket up to his nose to see if it smells like Chase; it doesn’t really smell of anything, probably because Chase has barely slept under it in weeks.

Chase disappears to brush his teeth for what feels like an inordinate amount of time; House can hear his electric toothbrush whirring and the sound of him swishing mouthwash and spitting it into the sink. House considers swirling some Listerine around in his mouth, but figures he’ll leave it for one night. Chase’s mouth is going to be minty-fresh enough for the both of them.

Chase emerges from the bathroom, switching the overhead light off, and crawls into bed beside House. He pulls the blankets up to his chest and leans back against the headrest.

House looks pointedly at the reading lamp on Chase’s side of the bed, which Chase has conspicuously not switched off. He’s also picked up his beaten copy of _A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ from the nightstand.

“Can I finish my book? I only have one chapter left,” he appeals hopefully.

“No. Turn the light off.”

“It won’t take me very long. They’re short chapters. I really want to find out what happens.”

Eyeing the book jacket, House says, “Keep talking. This is really helping me not want to have sex with you.”

“Please?” Chase gives him a pout that’s probably supposed to be cute. Annoyingly, it is.

House rolls over and pulls the blanket up, “Oh, fine. Read your stupid book. Then go to sleep.”

Chase leans over to kiss him on the cheek again. House is glad the blanket is covering most of his face, so Chase can’t see him smile.

*

The next morning, House wakes up in Chase’s bed, alone.

House assumes he’s gone off to the bathroom or the kitchen or something. He’s a little disappointed that he doesn’t get to wake to the sight of Chase drooling into his pillow, but he’s hoping there will be more opportunities for that.

He takes a moment to look around the bedroom in the clear light of day. It’s actually not quite as impersonal as he’d originally thought. There are little bits of Chase’s personality here and there, in trinkets and wall art. There’s another painting that’s reminiscent of water, all turquoise and sea-foam green and whitish-brown, the colors of a tropical beach. On top of the dresser are several large seashells: spiky conches in peach and pink, purple and blue abalone, and a tall jar full of scalloped white sand shells, silver dollars, and speckled cones. A clear dish contains loose change, small pieces of white driftwood, and bits of blue-green sea glass.

Also on top of the dresser are a few framed photographs: a picture of Chase as a little boy on the beach standing in front of his beautiful mother, who’s half-crouched with her arms around him from behind, smiling wistfully at the camera. There’s a photo from his graduation ceremony of him beside his stern-looking father, who has a hand posed somewhat stiffly on Chase’s shoulder. 

Hanging over the side of a picture frame displaying a photo of baby Chase with both his parents (he’s a disgustingly cute child) is a thin gold chain with a delicate gold cross pendant. House recognizes it as belonging to Chase’s mother – she’s wearing it in every photo.

House decides to go find Chase. He enters the living room to find Chase on the floor, doing push-ups. Next to him, there are some small hand-weights and resistance bands scattered on a blue exercise mat he's laid out.  
  
"Good morning," Chase grunts without breaking his stride, finishing his set before lifting himself up off the floor. He picks up a hand towel and wipes his face.

"I didn’t take you for Sporty Spice. You're more like..." House waves an illustrative hand, trying to remember the Spice Girls, "Who's the blonde one?"

"Baby Spice?"  
  
“Yeah, her," House glances at his watch. "It's eight o’clock in the morning. How long have you been doing that?"  
  
"Just twenty minutes. I'm done now." Chase puts the towel over his shoulder. There's sweat staining the collar of his t-shirt.  
  
A thought occurs to House. "Do you do this every morning?"  
  
“Yeah. So?"

“Nothing," he rolls his eyes, "Of course you do."

Chase gathers up the weights and puts them away in a closet. "I play rugby, House. I'm not that unfit."

“Just surprised you like to lift anything that isn’t a dorky sci-fi novel, that’s all,” House watches him roll up the mat and pack it away.  
  
As usual, Chase doesn’t even blink at the insult. "I'm going to take a shower. Feel free to make some coffee and whatever you want for breakfast. There’s cereal."  
  
Chase wanders off down the hallway. House waits until he hears the bathroom door shut to yell, "Can I come in and watch?"  
  
"No!" Chase yells back over the sound of the shower turning on, “Not unless you plan on getting in here with me!”

House curses himself. This is why he’s so much better at being a terrible person: being a nice guy sucks.

*

After he gets out of the shower, Chase changes into a pair of cotton pajama pants and a clean white t-shirt. He combs his wet hair quickly with his fingers and swipes a hand over the fogged glass of the mirror to look at his reflection. He doesn’t actually look all that horrendous anymore; his face is a normal color, his nose isn’t dripping everywhere, and his eyes are no longer glassy and out of it. He could pass for a perfectly healthy person out on the street.

House isn’t around when he returns to the bedroom, and he isn’t in the living room, either. His coat is gone and his blue backpack is still on the floor by the front door, so Chase assumes that he’s just gone out to run an errand.

Chase takes the time alone to reflect on the bizarreness of the situation he’s found himself in. He’s just been at death’s door, but he actually feels a lot better than he has in ages. He figures that this is some sort of cosmic trade-off, and decides that it will be worth whatever suffering he’s endured if there’s a chance that House might actually like him enough to stick around.

He hasn’t seen the world outside in nearly three weeks. Giving in to temptation, he grabs a zip-up hoodie from his closet and throws it on before stepping out onto his small balcony. It’s cold enough out to see his breath in the air, but he doesn’t mind. The air feels clean and fresh in his lungs, a stark contrast to the stale air of the hospital. It’s a clear, beautiful day out; a clean white blanket of snow covers the ground, and the sky is bright blue. It’s the quiet time of day when most people are at work, so even the view of the street is serene and peaceful.

Unfortunately, the cold air starts to get to him almost right away, and he begins to cough. He doesn’t have many lingering symptoms left, but the cough is one of them. 

Suddenly, he’s being grabbed from behind. "Hey!”

House has him by the scruff of the neck and is dragging him back indoors.

“Get back inside, you moron! Are you trying to kill yourself?" House frog-marches him back to the bedroom and practically throws him down onto the mattress. He’s holding a white paper bag from the delicatessen across the street.

Chase splutters out a few more coughs; House's little pet names for him are always so sweet. House unceremoniously throws the comforter over his head, leaving him looking like a Halloween ghost.

“That’s it. I’m calling in,” House mutters to himself long-sufferingly.

"To work? I thought you were supposed to be on vacation," Chase shrugs the comforter off, discarding it. House gives him a stern eyeballing until Chase lies down in bed and obediently pulls the blankets up to his chin.  
  
"Cuddy was sniffing around, so I said I might be back. But that’s not happening. No new case yet, and you obviously need to be babysat. Do I really have a choice in the matter?"

"You're just making excuses to stay here," Chase says with smug satisfaction.

"Shut up,” House throws the bag at him, “Eat a muffin.”  
  
House walks off to the other room, and a moment later, he’s making a call on his cell. Chase overhears him say,

"Don’t hold your breath, you two - I won't be coming in today. I found a sick puppy that needs looking after. Yes, very sick and very stupid. Seems that he may have brain damage; I might have to put him down if it progresses. Can't bring myself to leave the little guy," House nods a few times, "Uh-huh. I guess you get to be the boss today. You can even sit in my chair. Go nuts."  
  
"Foreman?" asks Chase, when House hangs up and lies down alongside him.  
  
"Cameron," House replies with a conspiratorial smirk, "Can't have him ruling the roost while I'm gone. He'd deadbolt himself to the chair."

House grabs the still-unopened paper bag from Chase’s lap and opens it. He pulls out a plastic container of fruit salad and hands it to Chase, and selects a chocolate-chip muffin for himself.

Chase eyes House warily as he begins peeling back the wax wrapper. “Don’t get crumbs on my sheets.”

“Have you even changed these sheets since you were sneezing all over them three weeks ago? They probably need to be incinerated.” House takes an obnoxiously large bite of his muffin.

Watching House chew with his mouth open, Chase wrinkles his nose, “That’s disgusting.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” House takes another big chomp.

After they eat, House crawls under the covers, pulling Chase close and sharing his warmth. They stay like this in silence for a while.

"Didn’t you know?" Chase asks eventually, listening to House's heartbeat through his chest, where his head is resting.  
  
"Know what?"  
  
"That I liked you." For all of House's uncanny powers of observation, Chase had never been able to tell.  
  
"I knew you liked working for me. Maybe a little too much," House admits.  
  
"I love my job," Chase says seriously, lifting his head to make eye contact. "The fact that I like you has nothing to do with it."  
  
"You sure? You're a better surgeon than most of the guys getting paid double what you do, working for me."  
  
"I like diagnostics. I'd like to run my own department one day," Chase cranes himself up to nestle his nose against House's ear, "Or take over yours when you're old and senile."  
  
House smacks his ass, hard, "I told you to stop with the flattery."  
  
With a squawk of protest, Chase jolts his hips in response and wrestles with the hand that's raised above his backside, threatening to come down again. Grabbing House by the wrists, he overpowers him by flipping himself onto his back and taking House along with him, so that House is now on top of him.  
  
"I followed you around like a puppy," Chase tells him in a rush, thrusting his hips up, "I used to dream about you touching me. I had all these fantasies that we'd stay late in the office one night, and you'd push me onto that recliner, and I'd be so nervous..." Chase rolls House again suddenly so that he's on his back again. He licks a slow path along the column of House's throat.  
  
"Whoah, whoah, stop! Down, boy! I said no sex, remember?" House cries desperately, struggling against him, "Jesus Christ, Chase, you're killing me here! I'm going to have incurable blue-balls for the rest of my natural life."

Chase moves a hand down insistently, “Then let me fix it…”  
  
"Stop it! I'm doing a noble thing here!” House squirms away from him, “I'm passing on sex with a smoking hot, kinky twenty-eight year old, out of concern for your wellbeing. I’m being considerate!"

Chase rolls off him to lay flat on his back, frowning up at the ceiling, “Fine.”

House turns over to face the wall and tries to talk down his merciless hard-on, willing himself not to think about the fact that Chase just _licked_ him.

“I’m thinking of your long-term recovery,” House explains after a moment, “The sooner you feel better, the sooner I can hammer you through the mattress on a regular basis.”

“Sex would make me feel better,” Chase informs him petulantly.

House sighs; Chase’s enthusiasm is doing nothing to help his self-control. “Maybe you can give me a blowjob later. Although I doubt that your lungs are up for it.”

Chase’s lips quirk up at the corners, “I’d be willing to give it a try.”

House pushes himself up onto his elbows to give Chase a stern look. “You do realize that I have legitimate cause for concern,” he reminds him seriously, “I’m still your doctor, and you’ve been very sick. That was not a lot of fun, if you recall.”

Chase doesn’t seem too bothered. He nuzzles up to him in a show of bare affection that catches House off guard. "I'm okay with it, if almost dying is what it takes to get you to notice me."  
  
House rolls his eyes, "I’ve always noticed you, you idiot. It would be impossible not to. Anyone who you think _doesn't_ notice you is probably just trying not to stare."

Chase huffs a warm breath against him and curls in even closer. House tightens his arms around him, feeling emboldened in the face of the wanton attention, and the way that Chase seems to soak up every little touch like he’s starving for it. After a long moment of deliberation, House reaches up tentatively to lay a hand on top of Chase's head.

Chase’s hair is thick and slightly coarser than it looks, but it’s also as luxurious as House has ever imagined. He allows his fingers to sink in, carding through it with greedy abandon.

"I've spent four years wondering what it would feel like to do this," he admits, stroking Chase's hair rhythmically.  
  
Chase actually laughs out loud, "I knew you only liked me for my hair. Is it everything you'd hoped for?"  
  
"Yup," House buries his face in it, breathing deep and indulging himself – predictably, Chase smells incredibly good. House closes his eyes, blissing out, "It's perfect."

“At least I know how to keep you coming back for more,” Chase says with a teasing grin.

Allowing himself a moment of uncomplicated happiness, House presses a kiss to the top of Chase’s head. Then he slides a hand down and grabs Chase’s ass, giving it a firm squeeze. "I've always wanted to do that, too."


	19. Chapter 19

Chase stands alone in the cemetery, looking down. He can hear birds twittering in the trees; otherwise, there’s only perfect silence.

This is the second cemetery he’s been to today. He’d visited his father first, which had taken some time since he didn’t have the best sense of direction and it had taken him a while to find the right plot.

His father’s grave marker was very befitting of the man, Chase thought. Somewhat grandiose yet understated, his father had selected a sleek black granite slab that loomed nearly as tall as Chase himself, square and shiny, with an inscription that read,

_ Doctor Rowan Anton Chase _

_March 8, 1938- November 29, 2005_

_Beloved Husband & Father_

_"Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity.” – Hippocrates._

There’s an empty space on the stone and a plot beside his father’s for Jeanette, whenever she’s ready for it. Despite the fact that she and his father were of a similar age, Chase very much doubts that she’ll be taking up residence there any time soon. 

His mother’s white granite headstone couldn’t be more different. It features a grotto with a full round sculpt of the Blessed Mother, bowing her head and holding out her hands. The epitaph inscribed beneath it read,

_In Loving Memory_

_ Evelyn Marie Chase _

_June 24, 1958 - May 6, 1998_

_Beloved Daughter, Sister & Mother _

" _The Lord watch between me and thee, while we are absent, one from the other.” - (Genesis 31: 49)_

Chase lowers himself onto the trimmed grass, a white rose held loosely between his fingers; he always brings her one of these when he comes to visit. They remind him of the garden she kept on one side of the house, just below his bedroom. The smell evokes memories of digging holes in the soil with her when he was barely old enough to handle the spade. It also brings back nights later on when he’d snuck out the window, making his escape by climbing down the trellis and landing softly on the mulch. Even after she’d seemed to lose interest and stopped tending them, the roses had endured. They still bloom year after year, in all different colors – scarlet, yellow, pink, peach, and ivory. White roses had always been her favorite; they aren’t in season now, so this time he’d had to buy one. He’s not quite ready to put it down yet, so he keeps hold of it and tries not to prick himself with the thorns.

He seems to have the cemetery to himself, and toys with the idea of speaking aloud. It doesn’t feel right, though, so instead, he just thinks what he wants to say, channeling his thoughts in her direction. He’d had a similar inward conversation with his father, not quite forgiving him for the way he’d left things, but telling him that he’d try to understand and maybe succeed, eventually.

He tells her about his life in America, his job, and the people he works with (a special mention goes to his boss, for being the odd, brilliant character that he is; there’s also the fact that Chase has a longstanding crush on him, but that seems hopeless, so he digresses). He tells her that he’d gotten to see his father before he’d passed, knowing that she’d be happy about that, even though there had been no love lost between the two of them. He relays selling the house, and what that meant for future visits. He thinks it’s for the best; it had been holding him back from moving on, keeping him stuck in the past. Maybe now whenever he visits, he won’t feel that way, anymore. 

The trip is almost over. He’s finished the difficult tasks; he’s signed all the paperwork and made all the phone calls. He’d gutted the house of his personal belongings; his old bedroom is nearly emptied out (most of it went in the bin or the donation box outside Saint Francis’, but he kept the things he’d continue to use, along with a few sentimental items), and he’d sorted through what was left of his mother’s things. Everything he’d wanted to keep is now in a storage unit on the outskirts of the city. Jeanette could do whatever she wanted with the rest.

His visit with Jeanette hadn’t lasted long, and could have been worse, he supposes (she’d made the usual snippy comments, but nothing he wasn’t prepared for). She wasn’t staying at the house anymore, but at a one-bedroom condo she’d rented after his father had died. Ever practical, Jeanette had no use for a huge empty house when a smaller space was more than sufficient. Jeanette made tea, and they’d sat on the porch to drink it. In the snippets of small talk they made while waiting for the lawyers to arrive, she spoke mostly about her daughter Camille, who was now an RN at Royal Melbourne and would be getting married in the fall. Chase doubts he’s invited to the wedding, but he figures he’ll drop Camille a text to congratulate her, anyway. 

He’d penned a note to leave for Jeanette on the kitchen table, with his house keys taped to the bottom. Since it’s probably the last communication he’ll have with her, he’d thanked her for putting up with a lot of his surly behavior over the years, and for making his father happy. He wishes her the best and leaves his cell phone number in case she ever needs it, for whatever reason.

He still has a lot to do before his journey back to New Jersey; his flight leaves tomorrow at 4:00 AM. He isn’t finished packing his suitcase or ticking off his check-list of things that need to happen before he heads to the airport. His plan is to take some Benadryl during the second leg of the flight (after a layover in Singapore) to knock himself out for at least a few hours. He wants to reset himself to Eastern Standard Time as much as possible, so he can avoid feeling like crap for his first few days back at work; combating the inevitable jetlag seems like his best bet. It usually takes him the better part of a week to feel normal again, but there’s no harm in doing what he can to help the process along.

His thoughts trail off, and Chase sits quietly for a few more minutes, listening to the birds chirp and the wind rustle in the trees. Finally, he lays the rose on the headstone at the Blessed Mother’s feet. He says a prayer and a private goodbye until next time and heads off to finish packing, and get an early night before the flight home. 

*

House is brushing the hair back from Chase’s forehead when he wakes up. He has a strangely faraway look in his blue eyes. “What were you dreaming about?” he asks.

Chase blinks and rubs his eyes, “I dreamt about visiting my parents’ graves.”

“Wow,” House snorts in amusement, “I dreamt about having a threesome with the twins from the Doublemint commercial. But yours sounds like fun, too.”

“How did you know I was dreaming?” Chase asks sleepily.

“I can tell,” House smiles, “I’ve gotten used to watching you sleep.”

“That’s kind of creepy.”

“I’m just that kind of creep.”

They make breakfast together; House had bought eggs, milk, and bread at the store. They fry up some French toast and make two pots of coffee, to be consumed mostly by House.

“I’m running out of vacation days,” House informs him, dragging his bread through the gallon of maple syrup swimming on his plate, “I’m going to have to go back to work.”

Chase pauses, chewing. “When, do you think?”

“Tomorrow.”

Chase had known this was coming; he’d just hoped it wouldn’t be this soon. It’s been almost a week since House had shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, and he hasn’t left since.

“Do you think it’s going to be weird at work when I come back?” he asks thoughtfully.

“Hopefully not. I plan on tormenting you as much as usual, so we can keep things on the down-low,” House winks, over a sip of his coffee.

“Can you at least stop making embarrassing comments about my mouth? And my hair? And my butt?”

House smiles at him fondly, “No.”

*

House had called Cuddy to officially announce that he was back on vacation, and told her not to bother contacting him, because his exotic destination was so remote that his phone would be indefinitely out of service.

He’s been vacationing in Chase’s apartment for the past five days, only leaving to buy groceries and visit the delicatessen across the street to acquire pastries for himself and cups of fancy, loose-leaf tea for Chase. Chase normally only drinks English Breakfast in the mornings, but being home so much means he’s drinking more tea than usual, so he wants to mix it up.

House has been borrowing pairs of Chase’s sweats to lounge around in (Chase doesn’t know why exactly, but it’s kind of a turn-on to see House dressed in his clothes); they fit surprisingly well, despite the height difference. He’s been provided with his own toothbrush (Chase nearly had a fit when he realized that House was just using mouthwash for the first day and a half, and rectified the situation with one of the spares he keeps lying around) and unopened packs of socks and boxer-shorts that had been sitting in the bottom of Chase’s sock drawer. These are about a size too small, but stretchy enough that they’re just about doable.

House was quick to acclimate to his surroundings, treating the space much as he would his own. He’s made it clear which side of the bed is his (the right side, which works out fine because Chase naturally prefers the left). He’s laid claim to the television during the mid-afternoon, and Chase has mostly given up trying to talk to him between the hours of one and three o’clock when he’s glued to _General Hospital_ and some other soaps that Chase can’t remember the names of.

In addition to House’s soap time, they spend a few hours each day largely ignoring each other, either reading or drifting apart into separate tasks. House gets absorbed in one of Chase’s textbooks ( _Emergencies in Cardiology_ ) and Chase goes back and forth between a book on trauma surgery he’s been chipping away at and _A Feast for Crows_ , which he’s just started. House doesn’t like to let Chase do anything in peace for too long, so sometimes he’ll interrupt him by throwing things at him (Reese’s Pieces, M&M’s, popcorn, his dirty socks). Chase considers throwing the book at him, except it’s 753 pages and weighs about ten pounds.

Sometimes, House interrupts him by taking the book out of his hands and pushing him back onto the couch to crawl over him. He extracts the red lollipop that Chase has been sucking on from his mouth and takes a long lick before tossing it onto the coffee table. Chase tilts his head up to bring their mouths together and House slips a hand under the thin fabric of Chase’s t-shirt, gliding it over his stomach. They kiss languorously, hands roaming across bare skin underneath their clothes. House always stops him when Chase’s hand gets too close to dipping below the waistband of his boxers, so Chase exacts revenge by leaving a massive hickey on House’s neck below his jaw.

They spend time hanging out together, too. They banter over hospital gossip, House spinning his vicodin bottle on the counter while Chase unloads the dishwasher. They speculate over whether Foreman is still dating the blonde nurse from Pediatrics, and Chase defends Cuddy’s honor (“You _know_ she was born female, and those _are_ her real breasts!”). They play chess with the set that Wilson gifted Chase at the hospital (House seems tickled to learn that Chase is actually a decent player, and hasn’t beaten him yet; their game is still on the go two days later). They play Mario Kart on the PlayStation, Chase seated cross-legged on the floor and House on the sole armchair, dragged close to the television to sit parallel to Chase. Chase lets House win the first race, and beats him the second and third. House mutters something about kids these days and their new-fangled gadgets, stating his preference for his Gameboy and old-school Nintendo.

A lot of time is spent on the couch in front of the television. Chase is still drained from the meds he’s on and the work his body is doing to repair itself; it leads to some accidental napping. He recalls leaning over to fight House for the TV remote and the next thing he knows, he’s waking up with his head resting on House’s lap.

He lifts his chin, looking upwards. House is engrossed in his soap opera; not _General Hospital_ , one of the other ones. It occurs to Chase suddenly that this might not be comfortable for House’s leg. He pushes himself up, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Sorry. Is your leg okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” House replies, not looking away from the television, “You can stay there if you want. It’s kind of like putting a heating pad on.”

Chase is tempted by the offer; he’d been extremely comfortable, and he really wants to lie down. He waffles a moment.

House pats his thigh, “Come on. My leg is getting cold.”

Chase lowers himself back down. “Who’s that?” he nods at the TV screen.

“That’s Marlena. She’s in the hospital because the guy she’s dating blew up the cabin she was in. The explosion was actually meant for her true love, John.”

“Why isn’t she with her true love?” Chase yawns.

“Amnesia.”

Chase continues his nap. When he wakes up, the soap is finished and House is watching a rerun of _The Nanny_. His hand is rested casually on Chase’s head.

Chase’s movements draw his attention. “There you are. I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep all day. Now move it. I’ve had to pee for like, an hour.”

“You could have woken me,” Chase stresses, sitting up.

House ruffles his hair before standing, “And miss all the funny things you say in your sleep? No way.” 

*

"What are you doing?” Chase enters the bathroom a while later. He’d been wondering what was taking House so long.

House had left the door partially open. He’s lined up the contents of Chase’s medicine cabinet on the side of the sink.

“Apartment search,” House proclaims, inspecting a nearly empty bottle of Nyquil.

Chase takes the bottle and throws it pointedly into the trash. “For what? Aren’t you sick of diagnosing me yet?”

“Just a follow-up. Why are you taking B12 instead of a multivitamin?”

“I get tired sometimes,” Chase responds with a sigh, “I have a demanding job. I take it as and when.”

“Swimmer’s ear medication?” House holds up a bottle inquiringly.

“I bought it for my trip. I knew I’d be surfing. I didn’t need to use it, though.”

House taps a finger to a large bottle of ibuprofen, “I found one of these in your locker at work. How often do you take it, and what for?”

“Old knee injury from playing rugby. It flares up sometimes when I go to the gym. I take it once or twice a week. Anything else, Sherlock?”

House points to a small teapot-shaped item, “You own a Neti pot?”

“Sometimes I use it to unblock my sinuses.”

“Sexy.”

“It’s gross. I like being able to breathe, though.”

House stares at it in distaste, “You do realize that you could be mainlining amoebas into your brain using that thing?”

“Only if you don’t use saline or distilled water. I’m not actually an idiot, House.”

“Jury’s still out on that, I’m afraid.” House picks up an EpiPen, “When was the last time you had to use one of these?”

“Not for a while. Maybe two, three years ago?”

“Since you started working for me?” House’s eyes register surprise.

Chase gives him a hard stare, “Yeah, at Cuddy’s barbecue. Someone used the same cutting board for two different fruit salads. I ate the one without the strawberries, but I still went into anaphylaxis. You don’t remember?”

House had been horrendously drunk at Cuddy’s barbecue three years ago; probably why he’s never been invited to another one since. “How drunk was I, at that point?”

“Pretty drunk, if you don’t remember. You’re the one who hit me with the Epi.”

“Oh.” Unfortunately for House, valiantly rescuing Chase from anaphylactic shock was one of the least crazy things to happen to him that night. He’d woken up in Cuddy’s backyard with his head in an empty cooler, next to a pile of Cuddy’s thongs. Still, he thought he would have heard about it, but then again, Wilson hadn’t spoken to him for a week. 

“I thought you knew. There was an ambulance, I had to stay overnight in the hospital, it was all very dramatic. And I called in sick the next day. Although, maybe you did, too…”

House uses this as a segue, “You see? This is exactly my point. You’re the only one of my employees who uses up all their sick days by actually being sick. Think you might want to work on that, and start playing hooky like the rest of us?”

Chase gestures to the meds on his sink, “Any wonder drugs I should be taking that might make a difference?”

“How about that multivitamin? Some extra vitamin C wouldn’t kill you, either.”

“I get plenty of vitamins through my diet.”

“Not enough, it would seem.”

Chase folds his arms, “And what about you? If I looked in your medicine cabinet, something tells me I’d find about twenty jumbo-sized bottles of vicodin and not much else. And those are just the ones you don’t have hidden in hollowed-out books around your apartment.”

“We’re not talking about me. Besides, I’m never sick.”

“You think you’re the picture of perfect health? You drink fifteen cups of coffee a day and sprinkle opiates on your cereal.”

“And I’m still in better shape than you are,” House appraises him, “I bet the house you grew up in was sparkling, eat-off-the-floor clean. You’re the only child of an upper class, stay at home mother. Because she couldn’t bear the thought of her precious little bundle getting sick, she probably polished your Legos with disinfectant every night. Meanwhile, the grubby kid down the street who ate ants off the sidewalk grew up to be healthy as a horse.”

Chase can’t argue much with this assessment. “So it’s my Mum’s fault for not letting me eat ants?”

“Babies need exposure to germs to build up their immune systems. That means playing in the dirt and sticking the dog’s chew-toy in their mouths on occasion. Otherwise, they wind up lacking the antibodies needed to fight infection later on.”

“Can we just agree that I’ll stop calling into work if you stop sending me into deathtraps? Seems like a fair trade-off.”

“Since when do I send you into deathtraps?” House refutes.

Chase starts listing on his fingers, “Hm. The state penitentiary, derelict warehouses, the apartments of patients with leprosy, fields full of rattlesnakes… do you want me to continue?”

“Now you’re just being a baby.”

“You’re the one telling me to take care of my health.”

“Which you should,” House agrees, “In your free time.” 

*

Being around Robert Chase twenty-four hours a day is very annoying, House decides.

Chase is an exercise freak. He does his push-ups and sit-ups with gusto first thing in the morning and then again in the evening before bed. He belongs to not one gym but two: the one at the hospital and another one near his apartment, which has a pool. He swims a few times a week (explaining the swimmer’s build, House supposes). He laments being unable to jog in the park until he’s fully recovered, and bemoans the fact that he doesn’t own a treadmill. He genuinely enjoys doing planks and looks forward to his physical therapy.

It’s the same thing with food: he thinks broccoli is delicious. When House asks where all the decent snacks are, Chase unironically offers him a choice between rice cakes and whole wheat crackers. The only junk food he eats is ice cream and French fries, which he calls ‘chips’ and douses with malt vinegar, ruining them. He isn’t any better with beverages; he makes House drink by himself, turning him down whenever House offers him a beer in the evening. He drinks a million cups of tea a day, except when he’s feeling wild and drinks orange juice.

His hobbies and interests range from lame to dangerous. He likes reading, watching films, and playing sports.

An inspection of Chase’s bookshelf reveals more sci-fi and fantasy novels (there’s an entire shelf dedicated to the works of Terry Pratchett, and most of another filled with the enormous tomes of George R.R. Martin). There’s a selection of non-fiction and a lot of medical journals and textbooks, primarily focused on his specialties in intensive care and cardiology. Whenever House opens one, he can see it’s been well-read from Chase’s habit of leaving creases in the top right-hand corners of the pages. 

His taste in movies and TV shows tends toward the realm of geekiness, too. He tries to convince House of the merits of a show called _Red Dwarf_ ; after watching one episode, House hatches plans to abscond with the DVD box-set and bury it at the bottom of the trashcan. He makes fun of House’s soap operas and asks annoying questions the whole time he’s watching them (Who’s that? Why is she in a coma? She’s cheating with her _brother?_ ).

The sci-fi fascination doesn’t end with his taste in fiction. Chase believes in the possibility of aliens (“I’m just not arrogant enough to think that of the fifty-billion galaxies, hundred-billion stars per galaxy, and ten-million-billion planets in the universe, that ours is the only one with life,” had been the exact quote). Predictable; if he has the capacity to believe in God, he may as well believe in little green men, too. He has rows of _X-Files_ DVD box-sets that House is sure he’ll try to inflict on him eventually. 

Chase’s other chief pastime is playing sports. His favorite activities take place in the water, with an emphasis on fate-tempting ones like surfing, snorkeling, and scuba-diving (he laughs off House’s warnings that he’s going to drown or get eaten by a shark). He still plays organized sports, which is something House thought people stopped doing after graduating high school. He plays soccer and rugby (which House learns is basically American football without the protective gear; from Chase’s description, it’s frankly miraculous that he still has all of his perfect teeth). He belongs to a local athletic club, where a group of grown men occasionally meet on weekends to fight over a ball and beat the crap out of each other. The only upside House can see is when he discovers a picture of Chase in the uniform (a long-sleeved jersey, shorts, cleats, and knee socks) and finds that he approves.

Chase is even more of a freak about the plants than House had originally thought; he _talks to them_. When he’s watering them or picking at the leaves, he says things like, ‘Looking a little dry, I see’ and ‘There you go, there’s some water’. House groans deeply and face-palms at him and Chase just looks at him like he’s the one with the problem.

Eating meals with him at the table instead of in front of the television is illuminating. House is reminded of Chase’s upbringing when he gets a dirty look for reaching across him to grab the salt. Chase is critical of House’s table manners and fussy about which side of the plate the cutlery is supposed to go on. He eats primly and as slow as a snail.

More of Chase’s rich-kid background comes out in bits of conversation: little mentions of his private school education, his father’s collection of rare antique medical books that were mostly purchased at auction, and the large house (probably mansion) he grew up in, which is now in the process of being sold. He doesn’t think it’s unusual that some of the possessions that he put into storage include not one but three top-of-the-line surfboards, two full sets of scuba gear, and a dive boat. It seems that Chase’s father made up for not spending time with him by buying him off with fancy sports equipment and unchecked use of his own credit card. He’s lived a fairly modest existence for as long as House has known him, but it’s clear that money means little to him only because it’s never been a concern.

House gets the sense that Chase was a lonely kid, despite being monetarily spoiled. House can picture him sitting alone by the edge of the pool like some gender-swapped Lolita, the stereotypical rich, neglected teenager looking to act out; on some level, it explains the business with the sex and cocaine. Wealth can be a curse as much as a blessing (though try telling that to someone like Foreman, who’d like to shove the silver spoon down Chase’s throat. Foreman will never stop stewing about his after-school jobs and hard-won scholarships, comparing them to Chase’s comparatively easy ride). Even though Daddy cut him out of the will, Chase had still been left an inheritance from his mother, who’d probably gotten a pretty penny in the divorce. When House asks if he’s still rich, he shrugs indifferently and says that he’s not, but he’s okay money-wise. House thinks, _Typical rich person answer_. 

He’s so… _Australian_. He uses words like ‘ta’ and ‘cheers’ instead of ‘thank you’ and his accent thickens when he’s flustered or exasperated (a frequent occurrence). He talks about his ‘mates’ and ends every sentence with an upward inflection like it’s a question. He’s obsessed with the beach and the ocean; when House asks him about his collection of beach-combed items, he talks animatedly about the various shells, nicely-shaped pieces of driftwood, and colorful bits of sea-glass, each with a story to go along with it. He offers to teach House how to body-board, with hearty assurances that he can do it despite his leg. He thinks House would enjoy snorkeling off the Gold Coast and scuba-diving around the Great Barrier Reef, if he ever wants to visit Australia.

All his little habits that House normally only has to tolerate at work are now on display 24/7. He’s always leaning back in his chair, looking centimeters away from falling over backward and cracking his skull. He fidgets constantly, drumming his fingers on any available surface and tapping his feet on the floor. He’s unable to sit still for five seconds, and he fiddles with whatever unlucky item happens to be sitting in front of him. In the kitchen, he plays with an apple for ten minutes, tossing and rolling it around on the table until House snatches it up and takes an enormous bite, just to put the thing out of its misery. He owns a stress ball that looks like it’s begging for a mercy killing, too.

Even the things he can’t control require effort to put up with (not including the accent, which can occasionally be… not bad). He breathes funny. Chase’s only physical imperfection is a deviated septum (apparently from getting his face smashed one too many times with a soccer ball as a kid), hence the disgusting Neti pot routine. House hadn’t noticed before, but there’s an occasional little whistling sound when he exhales that’s plain as day when he’s asleep. He also sneezes incredibly loudly; House had thought it was annoying at work when it made him jump during differentials, but when they’re lying in bed together, it’s like a bomb going off next to his head.

Then there’s the hair: it’s always flopping in his face. It looks good, but it’s a pain in the ass to deal with on a practical level. When they kiss, House has to keep pushing it out of the way to keep it from tickling his cheeks and getting in his mouth. Shiny gold hairs have started to appear on House’s clothing, standing out against his mostly dark-colored wardrobe. In a fit of pique, House considers telling him to chop it all off so that he doesn’t have to deal with it, and so that maybe he’ll lose some of the Disney Prince appeal that sets fire to the hearts of nurses and smitten, cancer-ridden nine year old girls.

Chase’s oral-fixation is even more distracting at home than it is in the office. He unselfconsciously eats bananas and sugar-free popsicles, and every pen House finds looks like it’s been dropped halfway into the garbage disposal. House isn’t sure whether to promote or fire Foreman for giving Chase a bag of lollipops. Either way, House’s temporary vow of chastity is not helped by the sight of Chase lounging around the house in his underwear, fellating inanimate objects.

While Chase takes a nap, House rummages through his bedroom closet. He grimaces upon entry; it’s like an explosion of hideousness. He’s surrounded by rows of polka-dotted shirts, checkered sweater-vests, and ties with offensive patterns. House had gone in there with a purpose, though; he’s looking to see if Chase owns a single item of warm clothing. His search yields two sweaters, one pathetically thin scarf, no hat, no gloves, and no snow boots. He doesn’t even own a decent winter coat. Chase clearly hasn’t wrapped his head around the concept of surviving the brutal New Jersey winters. He may be Mister Healthy when it comes to diet and exercise, but he can’t even dress himself properly. No wonder the idiot made himself sick.

On a shelf in the closet, House discovers a shoebox containing random knick-knacks and a couple of old photos. They aren’t family photographs, just a few candids of a probably-teenaged Chase hanging out with his idiot friends. There’s one that House pauses on; it’s a group shot of obnoxious-looking Aussie teens making faces at the camera. Chase is at the far end of the group, and the dark-haired boy he’s standing next to has an arm around his shoulder. While everyone else is looking at the camera, he’s looking at Chase. House wonders if this could be the ‘friend’ that Chase was talking about.

He doesn’t know why the mere possibility pisses him off so much, but it does. It’s Chase’s business who he sleeps with and what he gets up to in bed, but House knows how vulnerable and self-destructive Chase can be when he’s having a meltdown; he’d seen it in technicolor after the death of Chase’s father. Even the knife in the back with Vogler had Chase’s proclivity for self-sabotage written all over it. This friend ( _boyfriend?)_ had to know this about him and took things too far, anyway. Thinking about it makes House angry enough that he has a brief flight of fancy about flying down to Australia and finding out how much Chase’s friend enjoys being strangled himself. Shaking it off, he puts away the shoebox and continues snooping around.

While he’s snooping, House spares a thought for his own past relationship. Stacy had always been able to go toe-to-toe with him; that was the thing that he’d liked most about her. They’d spent five years together and he’d loved her through all of them, but he’d always known that it would end; he just hadn’t known that he’d be the one to end it. She may have broken it off, but only because he’d given her no other option. Even though he’d slept with her since her subsequent marriage and toyed with the idea of a reunion, he’s never quite forgiven her for making the decision to approve the surgery that forced him to live as a cripple. Her intentions were good, and she may well have saved his leg from a less desirable fate, but it destroyed their relationship. He wonders what Chase, another doctor, might have done in her place. Probably something clever and medically creative, if his regular instincts are anything to go on. At the very least, ass-kisser that he is, he’d have done what House told him to.

In the back of a drawer, House discovers a string of black rosary beads. He gives them an inquisitive rub and muses over Catholics and their little rituals. Chase wasn’t just a day-tripping Catholic, either; he had very nearly joined the seminary. Whether it was out of guilt or desperation or a last bartering attempt to save his dying mother, House isn’t sure; he’s just sure that Chase was never meant to be a priest. He’d make a terrible one (too closed-off, too judgmental, too morally flexible); he’s much better off as a doctor. He may not be as religious these days, but he still believes in God and prays to him; he admits as much to House.

When House asks if he’d seen a light at the end of a tunnel during his near-death experience, he claims to have seen something, but won’t say what. When House ribs him about it he just shrugs and says with full conviction that he believes in Heaven, Hell and a place in between. House wants to know who was waiting for him outside the pearly gates (Angels with harps? Jesus in his flip-flops? Marilyn Monroe in a bikini?), but Chase remains evasive and cool as a cucumber. House reminds him that whatever he saw was the product of chemicals flooding his brain when his body went from the peak of a raging fever to induced hypothermia. Chase tells him to believe what he wants.

Spending time with Chase isn’t all bad, though. He’s good company when he’s not being annoying, and House feels comfortable around him. He can talk medicine with him in a way that he’d never been able to with Stacy. Their casual conversations often drift into work territory, and House is reminded of why he’d hired him. He’s smart enough for House to respect him and he’s got a roundabout way of thinking that speaks to House’s own heart; of House’s three fellows, it’s Chase who reminds him most of himself. While Cameron is dedicated and hardworking and Foreman is relentlessly driven and analytical, Chase is the one that stares off out the window and then comes out with something leftfield out of nowhere, and he’s right more often than not.

Chase isn’t a perfect employee; he makes mistakes sometimes when he’s stressed or distracted (including the whopper that happened in the wake of Rowan Chase’s passing) and he’s known to be opportunistic and self-serving when it comes to protecting his job. He can come across as lazy, and very blasé about arguing his point if he senses that House doesn’t want to be fought with. He gets excellent patient reviews, but Foreman has a theory that Chase’s rapport with them masks a hidden disdain. Sometimes it does; he’s unsympathetic towards patients with weight issues, blaming it on the American fast-food culture. He’s blunt about the fact that obesity-related health problems are self-inflicted and thinks that the best course of treatment is preventative action, like biking and eating apples instead of Happy Meals.

He’s more genuine than Foreman would give him credit for, though. He sometimes gives Cameron a run for her money in how much he actually cares. He’s got a soft spot for child patients (even the fat ones) and is incredibly good with them. House always assigns him to take point on the little people; he’s much better at it than Foreman (who talks down to them) and better than Cameron because he talks to them on their level, instead of cooing at them because they’re adorable.

Patient-facing or otherwise, Chase is handy to have around; House often relies on him for his specialties. As an intensivist, he bears the brunt of responsibility for keeping the patients alive while they all figure out what’s wrong with them. He’s also tremendously skilled with a scalpel; truth be told, he’s probably the hospital’s best surgeon. House may only tell him so on his deathbed, but he’s proud of him. He’s a good doctor.

Throughout the day, Chase is a distraction. A glance at him toweling his hair off fresh from the shower, or a flash of bare skin when his t-shirt rides up requires House to look away to keep his willpower from turning to Jello. Chase, thankfully, seems blissfully unaware of the attention. House used to roll his eyes at Chase’s obliviousness to the effect he has on other people, but now he sees it as part of his charm. He isn’t vain about his appearance, nor is he indifferent to it; his main concerns are being physically fit and meticulously clean.

His daily routine involves washing his face, _moisturizing_ , brushing his teeth, and flossing for what feels like about three hours. When House enters the bathroom to make sure he hasn’t choked on his electric toothbrush, he’s stopped in his tracks by the sight of Chase standing at the sink in just a pair of black boxer-briefs. He looks damn sexy, and House is doubly baffled that someone would choose to hide a body like his under such ridiculous outfits. House is deeply looking forward to being able to do whatever he wants with it; he thinks he’d like to start by finding out what Chase’s pretty mouth looks like wrapped around something other than a lollipop. 

Sleeping next to Chase is a mixed bag. He kicks sporadically and talks in his sleep, and his feet are abnormally cold. He looks cute, though. He’s not so bad to snuggle up to at the end of a long day of putting up with him.

*

Spending copious amounts of time with Gregory House can be exhausting and unpredictable. The man is as frustrating a companion as he is a boss.

House’s favorite thing to do besides solving puzzles is finding new things to ridicule Chase for. Apparently, Chase’s apartment is full of them. He also rips into Chase’s behavior.

The fact that Chase likes exercise is great entertainment for him. He keeps telling Chase it’s okay if he wants to change into his leotard and his short-shorts.

House’s penchant for junk food is even worse than Chase suspected: he lives on pills, coffee, and Doritos. After he goes grocery shopping (which was nice of him, in theory, since Chase isn’t supposed to leave the house) he fills Chase’s cupboards with Oreo cookies and shoves Chase’s favorite crackers to the back of a high shelf so he can fit a family-sized bag of Funyons. Chase opens his freezer to discover that his bags of frozen vegetables have been buried under boxes of Hot Pockets and giant squares of oven-pizza. House also keeps pestering him to drink beer, which he usually only does if he’s at a social gathering where it’s expected. He thinks it’s effeminate that Chase drinks tea and owns a stovetop kettle. 

When Chase says “yuck” when House offers him Cheetos, House replies, “Says the person whose nation’s greatest culinary achievement is brown goo, made from spoiled yeast.” He’s referring to Vegemite, which is delicious. Chase doesn’t bother defending it, knowing his efforts will only be wasted on this poor, ignorant, Cheeto-eating American.

When they eat dinner, House chews loudly just to annoy him, sometimes talking with his mouth full. His table manners would make Chase’s grandmother faint. He shoves food into his mouth like someone is going to steal it off his plate if he doesn’t get it down fast enough. He doesn’t seem to understand how to use cutlery (you’re supposed to use the knife as well as the fork) but with the way he eats, he may as well just use a shovel.

Unsurprisingly, House has no respect for Chase’s privacy. He nosily rifles through all of Chase’s possessions so that he can rip on them. He makes fun of Chase’s taste in books, films, hobbies, and especially his clothes.

In Chase’s opinion, House’s taste in films and TV shows leaves much to be desired. Chase will never understand his bizarre love of soaps. The drivel doesn’t end there, though; his enthusiasm for monster trucks is mind-boggling, as is his predilection for dramas like _The OC_ and _Gossip Girl_ , which are terrible and aimed at teenage girls. He likes a wide variety of trashy reality shows, too; Chase has no idea how he finds the time to watch so much garbage. He made Chase switch off the British sci-fi comedy classic _Red Dwarf_ (which he’d actually like if he gave it a chance) in favor of a Lifetime original movie about Princess Diana.

House is physically lazy. He’d gotten briefly addicted to jogging when his leg had temporarily stopped hurting after a ketamine treatment he’d received after being shot by a patient’s disgruntled spouse, but now he just sits around like a bump on a log. He expends more energy avoiding getting off the couch than he would on an afternoon walk. He uses his leg as an excuse, but there’s no reason he couldn’t do sit-ups or lift arm weights, he simply refuses. Fortunately for him, he has a good metabolism and his body is in naturally good shape, but he could still use the exercise for happiness-inducing endorphins if nothing else. Chase thinks he’d enjoy swimming, which he’ll try to convince him of at some point when he’s back in the routine of doing so himself.

He’s also very aggressive with his cane. Whenever Chase does something he finds objectionable (change the channel away from _The Bachelor_ , misplace his bag of potato chips by actually putting it away, etcetera) he gets a whack or a poke with the business end of House’s walking aid. House has a tendency to wave it about when he talks, sometimes perilously close to Chase’s plants. Why he even needs it indoors when he’s usually just sitting around on his rump is beyond Chase’s comprehension; it’s his suspicion that House just likes having it handy to threaten Chase with.

There’s literally nothing Chase can do that House can’t find a way to take issue with; he has a problem with the way Chase _breathes_. Sitting in a chair is something Chase is allegedly a failure at, too. He can’t even sneeze in the man’s presence without getting grief for it. He thinks it’s pretty rich coming from an individual who clips his toenails in Chase’s living room (with Chase’s clippers, no less). He wears an enormous grin when Chase glares at him and marches off to retrieve the dustpan.

For all he likes to point out Chase’s many flaws, House has plenty of irritating habits of his own. He leaves stuff everywhere after he’s finished using it (used cups and mugs, the scissors, bread after making a sandwich). He doesn’t clean off his plate before putting it in the sink and uses Chase’s tea towels to wipe ketchup off the counter. He picks things up (like pens) off the floor with his freakishly long toes. He squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and, after taking a shower, manages to drip water everywhere except the bathmat, then leaves his dirty clothes and wet towel on the floor, two feet from the laundry hamper.

The other thing that bugs him is that House won’t leave him alone. He follows Chase around from room to room to pick on him. He’s not even left in peace when he’s in the bathroom; House bangs on the door throughout his shower to ask if he needs help soaping himself, but still refuses to have sex with him. He finds it amusing that Chase uses face-wash and moisturizer (for sensitive skin), and razzes him about the way he brushes his teeth. He keeps pretending to look for a hidden door to a room that he speculates contains row upon row of Chase’s hair products.

House can be surprisingly nice sometimes though, at least when nobody else is around to see it. He makes Chase a cup of tea once when he’s hacking up a lung, wordlessly setting it on the coffee table in front of him and deflecting the ‘thank you’ he gets with a lengthy criticism of Chase’s kettle and its insane buildup of limescale. Whenever Chase moves to another room for any length of time, he keeps finding his inhaler within easy reach. House seems to have memorized Chase’s medication schedule better than he has, and reminds him to take his pills on time. Whenever Chase falls asleep on the couch, he wakes up covered in a blanket with a throw pillow tucked under his head.

Over the years, Chase has often wondered about what House is like in a relationship. The only long-term partner that he knows about is Stacy, who House had been with for five years. She’d dumped him after House became unbearable in the aftermath of his infarction; House still blames her for his chronic pain and the fact that he’s a cripple. Chase doesn’t think that’s fair; he understands why she did what she did. Out of love, she made a medical decision for him against his wishes that probably saved his leg from amputation. But she isn’t a doctor; she wouldn’t have been able to see that there might be other options. Chase tries to imagine what he would have done in her place; he doesn’t know the details of House’s case, but if House had been his patient, Chase would have recommended a procedure to bypass circulation around the dead muscle instead of removing it completely. For it to work without causing complications, they’d have needed the right surgeon; Chase could have done it himself if he’d been there.

Chase has never had a real girlfriend or boyfriend, unless you counted the saga with Jason (he doesn’t). Neither he nor Jason had ever acknowledged each other as such or ever will, despite Jason’s possessiveness. They weren’t a couple; they were just two screwed up people who came together like magnets, Jason’s almost psychopathic propensity for pushing people’s boundaries (sexually and otherwise) somehow locking into place with Chase’s people-pleasing tendencies and social shyness. Jason’s need to dominate him and occasionally get rough with him in bed was complemented by Chase’s willingness and his bizarre need for self-punishment, at the time.

House’s sex life is even more off-color than Chase’s. He regularly consorts with prostitutes to scratch whatever itch he has, and is completely unashamed by the fact. Chase doesn’t approve, but who is he to throw stones? He’s got his own questionable behavior to account for. House doesn’t need to hear about his long-running string of random hookups or learn the details of his fucked up sort-of relationship just yet. He already thinks Chase is a deviant and a head case because of the handcuffs. He’ll have to impress upon House that he’s not a total freak in bed all the time; he just has the very occasional urge to be tied up and bossed around a little.

House’s favorite hobby (apart from harassing people) is playing musical instruments. He’s a capable guitarist, but his true talent shows on the piano; he plays beautifully. Chase has always admired musicians, but never had any desire to be one. Chase’s father had forced him into piano lessons as a kid, and only let him quit after deciding that Chase was probably tone-deaf. Chase doesn’t think so; he sings well (at least well enough to handle solos in the choir during his altar-boy days, and karaoke nights at the bar near work) but he’d been bored by the piano. The only things he remembers how to play are ‘Heart and Soul’ and ‘Chopsticks’.

When Chase wakes up alone from his nap, he wanders into his bedroom to find House rummaging through his closet, holding up one of Chase’s shirts and glaring at it like it had murdered his family. He tells Chase that he should burn everything he owns and hire a stylist, since he’s rich and can afford it (House seems to be under the impression that Chase is a billionaire or something). Taking his shirt back, Chase informs him that he likes the way he dresses, and House hating it is just a bonus. House also rags on Chase’s lack of winter clothing. Chase resents having to buy clothes that are particular to one season, and has never really gotten around to it in the four years he’s lived in New Jersey.

While he’d been nosing around, House discovered Chase’s rosary beads. He starts banging on about atheism and the theory of evolution, arguing that it factually contradicts the existence of God. He tells Chase that he knows he likes fiction (obviously starting with the Bible) but wonders if he’d make an exception and read some Richard Dawkins. Chase tells him that he’s read _The Selfish Gene_ and _The God Delusion_ and found them interesting. House doesn’t understand how Chase can believe in evolution and still believe in God. He tries to pry out of Chase what he’d seen during his near-death experience, but Chase doesn’t tell him. There are some things he keeps to himself.

Chase likes being able to talk about work outside of work; yes, he is that lame and addicted to his job. He’s already missing the fast-paced daily rhythm of working at the hospital. It’s like when he was a kid and became disappointed when he got sick because he had to miss school; he _liked_ school, and eventually skipped two grades when his teachers got fed up with him correcting their notes on his essays. He gets bored when his mind isn’t challenged, which sometimes comes across as laziness. House does nothing but challenge him, and Chase is always up for it.

As a boss, House is terrible to work for by most people’s standards: he’s demeaning, borderline-abusive, and regularly expects his employees to break the law, as well as their own moral codes (fortunately for Chase, his is the most flexible out of the three of House’s fellows). He takes great pleasure in making Chase feel like a dolt, and twists his words (for the record, Chase doesn’t hate fat people. He just doesn’t shy away from the fact that America has a terrible obesity rate compared to other countries, and it makes him angry to see parents destroying the health of their kids). But House is also inspiring and he pushes them to be smarter, better at their jobs, and relentless in pursuing a diagnosis and saving the patient. Having worked for House, Chase never wants to work for anyone else. If that makes him a suck-up, then so be it. 

For all his obnoxiousness, House is the most brilliant man that Chase has ever met, and Chase has absolute faith in him. House doesn’t like the word faith; he associates it with God and religion. He may not understand what it means to let go and put complete trust in another entity or person, but Chase has been doing it since he was born. God may have let him down on occasion, but House never has.

Chase is still pinching himself that House is actually _here_. He sneaks glances when House isn’t looking, sometimes admiring him in profile, sometimes gazing down the length of his lean arms to pause on his hands – Chase has always had a thing about them. House isn’t modelesque like some of the jocks who strike poses in front of Chase at the gym, or dripping sexuality like the dominatrixes at the clubs and parties Chase ( _very, very_ occasionally) attends on the whim of a feverish impulse; he’d been introduced to them by Jessa, a fling of his who liked to be burned during foreplay (yet another damaged soul drawn to him like a moth to a flame - in her case, quite literally).

House is just… _House_. Brilliant, compelling, sexy, mean as hell when he wants to be, and inexplicably kind in the next breath. Chase had been attracted to his sharp blue eyes and rakish features from the moment he sat down for his job interview. It wasn’t just a physical attraction, either; it was the way those blue eyes watched him, gleaming with interest and intent, like Chase was a puzzle to be taken apart and reconfigured. Getting the job had meant spending countless hours of squirming hotly under the scrutiny of that gaze, feeling stripped bare by it. He’d lain awake at night, kept up by fevered imaginings of House pulling him apart and putting him back together physically, instead of psychologically. The more time he’d spent in House’s presence, the deeper and more complex his crush became. After years of going unrequited, it became something that he could ignore, like a broken bone after healing; he’d forget about it for days and sometimes weeks at a time, but it was always there, and it throbbed every once in a while. There’s always been an undercurrent of flirtation to their interactions that kept Chase living in pathetic hope that his feelings might be reciprocated, eventually. He’s hung on for ages, but at least it’s been worth it. 

House’s refusal to have sex with him is driving him nuts. He’s spent four years fantasizing about the man – who is now sleeping in his bed – and Chase still isn’t allowed to touch him below the belt. It’s infuriating. House has played cruel games with him before, but this one takes the cake. The worst part is that House actually thinks he’s being _nice_ by doing it. Chase can’t wait for House to decide he’s healthy enough to bend over the furniture so they can finally do some of the things he daydreams about during differentials.

In bed, House hogs all the covers and takes up tons of space by spreading his long limbs out. His saving grace is that he lets his guard down for once, losing his hard edges; in sleep, he looks tranquil and almost boyish. The best part is, House turns out to be a secret snuggler. He lets Chase sleep in the crook of his arm. 

*

Chase wakes to the feeling of the bed dipping beside him. House is sitting over him, gripping a mug.

“Rise and shine,” House holds out the mug to him, “I brought you coffee. Don’t say I’m not a considerate… ”

Sitting up to receive his drink, Chase raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Boss with benefits,” House goes with.

“That works,” Chase sips his coffee, noting that it’s been prepared exactly how he likes it.

House is regarding him, “What were you thinking about just now? You had a dopey little grin on your face.”

Chase hides a small smile behind his cup, “Nothing specific. I just like that you’re here.”

House looks mildly amused, “Alright. It’s time for me to go to work. Take it easy.”

Knowing it’s futile, Chase suggests, “Couldn’t you call in sick again? I could cough on you, if that helps.”

“I’m afraid you’re no longer contagious. And I can’t keep playing hooky forever.”

“I guess not…”

House ruffles Chase’s hair and heads for the door, “Have a good day, try not to kill yourself. I’ll see you when I get out.”

“Bye,” Chase calls after him.

When Chase hears the door shut, his apartment suddenly feels emptier than it ever has. He wonders what he’ll do with himself until House gets back. It’s only eight hours, but it feels like a long time away. He’s starting to get used to not being alone.

*

“Do you think he’ll come in today?” asks Cameron, blowing steam from her cup of coffee.

Cameron and Foreman sit in the diagnostics lounge for the first hour of their arrival, as they have done every day since House went on vacation. After an hour passes and it looks like House isn’t coming in, they’ve been spending their days in the clinic or the ER. It’s the best use of their time until House returns and they can start a new case.

Foreman shrugs, “He’d better. Otherwise, I’m picking one myself and he can just suck it up. I’m sick of doing clinic duty while we have a stack of perfectly good cases piling up.”

“Do you think he’s spoken to Chase?”

“Dunno. Have you?”

“No, I figured I’d give him some time to settle in first. I might give him a call later.”

“Why do you think House might have?” Foreman gives her a curious look.

Cameron smiles, “Isn’t it obvious? House cares about him.”

Foreman presses his lips together, “Can’t argue with you there.”

“He cares about you, too,” Cameron chides him, “He bent over backward to figure out what was wrong when you were sick.”

That had been over a year ago, when Foreman had become infected with a waterborne parasite from visiting the unsanitary rooftop of a patient’s home. Foreman supposes that House had cracked the case in due course, and he’s grateful. He definitely doesn’t recall House hovering over his bed, though.

“Sure, but Chase is his favorite. He’s probably over there now, making him soup.”

Cameron gives him a somewhat chastising look. “Oh, come on. House did what he thought was best, in both situations. And he cured both of you.”

“You don’t think he went above and beyond with Chase?”

“He did everything he could. Chase would have died if he hadn’t.”

“And there’s the ethical issue of prioritizing one patient’s life over another,” Foreman continues, not seeming to hear her, “When our other patient was dying, he chose to stay with Chase, who wasn’t as sick at the time. That isn’t a problem for you?”

“He cured Mr. Stevenson and saved his life, too.”

“Right, but that isn’t the point. He still put Chase first. Do you think if he was Joe Schmoe from down the street, House would have been at his bedside, spoon-feeding him medicine?”

“Joe Schmoe isn’t on my payroll,” House announces, coming up behind Foreman. He drops his blue backpack onto a chair and goes to hang up his coat. “Are you upset because you think Daddy doesn’t love you all the same?”

“You finally decided to show up,” Foreman says testily.

“I hope you picked out some good cases. I could really use the stimulation after all that time sitting on the beach, sipping margaritas.”

Foreman eyes the faded hickey on House’s neck. “Uh-huh. I can see that you’ve been working on your tan.”

“Welcome back,” Cameron greets House with a smile, “I hope you had a chance to relax, wherever you were. You look well.”

“I’m peachy. So, what have you got for me?” House stops in front of the whiteboard. Chase’s symptoms are still written on it.

“Sorry. We didn’t erase it because we know how much you hate when anyone else touches the board,” Cameron explains a bit guiltily.

Staring at the board for another second or two, House says, “No, that’s fine. Continue. Case?”

House proceeds to erase the whiteboard clean, while Foreman launches into a case file.

After ten minutes, he says, “Okay. These all suck. I want you to go down to the ER and put your ears to the ground. We can do better.”

Cameron and Foreman stand to trundle off to the ER. On their way out, House winks at Foreman.

“Don’t worry. Next time you’re dying, I’ll make sure to sit at your bedside, clutching my pearls.”

*

At the end of House’s first day back at work, he goes straight to Chase’s apartment, entering with the spare key Chase had let him take. He enters Chase’s bedroom to find him lying still with his eyes closed, apparently asleep. He quietly steps across the room and takes a seat at the edge of the bed.

“You’re awake,” he says after a long pause, “I can tell by your breathing.”

Chase’s eyes open a crack, giving House an irritable look. “I was trying to sleep.”

“You’re mad at me for leaving you alone.”

“No I’m not,” Chase sniffs, not very convincingly.

"Let me make it up to you. I brought you a present," House holds out the gift. It’s a brand new pack of unsharpened yellow pencils. It produces the desired effect of making Chase smile.

"Well, it’s really for me,” House clarifies, “I'm running out of ones with your teeth-marks on them, and you know how I dislike change."

Chase takes the proffered pencils, setting them on the bedside table next to his book of crosswords, "Thanks."

Chase coughs a few times and clears his throat. House reaches out and rubs small circles over his lower back, “How are you feeling today?”

“Good. Well, not bad. Better,” Chase finally decides.

“Well, enjoy it - pretty soon you’re going to be feeling much worse. We’re going to have to rebuild your immune system.”

Chase’s heart sinks.

He knows exactly what this means: re-infecting him with every common ailment his memory-wiped immune system has forgotten how to fight off. It means the misery he’s been in for the past several weeks is doomed to repeat itself again and again, albeit in smaller, more manageable doses.

“I say we start with the flu. Or maybe strep throat,” House muses, “You can stay home from school and eat ice cream.”

“Don’t, House.”

“Think of all the time you’ll have off work. Maybe we should get you hooked on soaps. You and I can start dishing on _General Hospital_.”

“No.”

“You could take up knitting. Read _Mission: Earth_. Watch _Gunsmoke_ from the beginning.” 

“As if you’d leave me in peace,” Chase mutters under his breath, “I’ll be working cases from my sickbed from day one.”

“You love working cases from your sickbed.”

“I shouldn’t. Not for a while.”

“Oh come on. We got a good one today,” House tempts him, crawling under the covers and wrapping his arms around Chase from behind, “Aren’t you going to ask me about it? You’ll like this one. The symptoms are horrific.”

Chase pouts, trying not to look interested, “Stop rubbing it in that I can’t go to work. I don’t want to know.”

“I’m not rubbing it in! You really think I’m that mean?” House pulls a dramatic fake-wounded expression.

“I think you’re _you_. And you won’t leave me alone.”

“You’ll get to work from home,” House offers.

“Lucky me.”

House grouses, “Do you have a better idea? How else am I supposed to keep tabs on you?”

“Get creative,” Chase advises, burrowing deeper into House’s arms, “There are plenty of other ways for you to make my life miserable. Figure it out.”

With an affectionate smile, House kisses the warm spot behind Chase’s ear, “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”  
  
*

FIN.  
  



End file.
